


A Quintessential Mess Of Things

by DarlingDearestDemonic



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: 1920s-esque, BAU minus Derek Morgan, Implied Reid/Ethan, M/M, Serial Killer Morgan, morgan/reid - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarlingDearestDemonic/pseuds/DarlingDearestDemonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cunning killer sets out upon the streets of New Orleans. His name? Derek Morgan. His mission? To set right what has been wronged in his own special way. Reid had no idea that a visit to a long-lost friend would bring him face-to-face with this notorious killer nor could he ever imagine that he...well, you'll just have to read on to find out the rest. ReidxunsubMorgan and a dash of ReidxEthan</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"What's on your mind?"

Reid broke out of his reverie to find Ethan staring at him over the rim of his glass. Although he seemed patiently and politely inquisitive there was no mistaking the mischievous hunger that lay beneath the mask. Reid smiled. He knew Ethan too well. There was no use in him trying to hide the fact that he probably already knew what was on Spencer's mind.

"What commands the attention of a genius?"

"A case," Reid said, his tone signifying that he was unsure if he wanted to divulge. Ethan  _hmm_ ed pensively. He got the message.

"Really? Here I was thinking that it was the drink in your hand that had you all starry-eyed."

"I barely took a sip,"

"Exactly. You've been staring at it for the past five minutes," Ethan paused and listened. Anthony Patterson was on the piano that night. Ethan did not trouble to hide the fact that he thought that the man played 'like an overenthusiastic piano student who only pounds out the notes because the silvers on his fingers are so damn heavy.' He took a sip but could barely savor the taste because the music that floated through his ears was such an unappetizing turn off. He stood up. "You know, I bet you didn't even here a word of what I was sayin'. Let me get you something different. Maybe that will put you in the mood." Ethan picked up his drink and walked away before Reid could protest. He came back ten minutes later with a noticeably angrier look on his face and a different glass in his hand.

"You okay, man?" Reid asked, accepting the drink that was handed to him.

"Not for long. There's only so much desecration that a beautiful work of art can take. Here's an Irish Whiskey with a hint of ginger ale, or vice versa, whichever fuels your fancy." Ethan cursed and promptly excused himself. Reid watched in surprise as he approached the piano man. The man's face fell with every word until, with a final gesture of disgust, he got up and stalked away. Ethan took his place and immediately began to play the same song, his pale hands dancing nimbly over the ivory keys. There was a temporary lull in the bar as people hushed their voices long enough to register this new kind of music. Most recognized it as a quintessential rendition of Phineas Newborn Jr and Roy Hayne's After Hours. Others merely recognized it as a very pretty song.  _Good old Ethan_ , Reid thought as he watched his friend dip lower and lower beneath the rim of the piano with eyes shut tight against the silent distractions of the bar. He crossed his legs and swirled the drink in his hand. It flashed a dizzying array of amber, red, and yellow shades as it reflected the spinning world around it. Reid stared into the glass, halfway hoping to find a single answer to all of his questions somewhere in the deceptively simple mixture of the piano's sound and the whirling colors…

"Take it easy, kid. You might just get drunk off of staring into that for too long," Reid jumped and cursed in frustration as the swirling colors leapt free from the glass and drenched his pants. He heard the man above him laugh and looked up at him in annoyance.

"Whoa, my bad. Try using this," He pulled a white cloth from his pocket and pressed it against his inner thigh, much to Reid's utter horror. But before he could completely comprehend the fact that the man had been bold enough to press his hand  _there_ the man had straightened up, the remnants of a suppressed smile still playing around his lips. Reid cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced over at Ethan. Unfortunately, his friend was still bent over the piano. He wouldn't be coming to his aid any time soon. Reid shifted his attention back to the man who was still standing over him and pursed his lips.

"Thanks," he muttered, avoiding eye contact. The man watched him for a while with black eyes that sparkled before he finally drew his gaze away.

"I, uh –" he smiled and gave a small laugh, "I actually came over here with the intent of being helpful. But I can see that I'm off to a bad start." Reid chanced looking up at him again and then quickly looked away. He didn't know why he had trouble meeting the man's gaze. He cleared his throat again but found that his voice just would not work.

"Wh-I don't know what you mean…" he finally managed. The man's smile widened. He pointed a ringed finger at the drink still in his hand.

"Irish whiskey with a hint of ginger ale? No, man, that does nothing for you," he picked up a glass from a passing waitress and handed it to him. "You might want to try this instead." Reid looked at the glass skeptically. He wasn't a big drinker yet the Irish Whiskey didn't sound like the most appetizing drink at the moment. Plus the man had a commanding air about him and although his smile was gentle and nonthreatening Reid felt uncontrollably compelled to taste the drink. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a tentative sip. He tasted ginger and sugar cane with a finely balanced hint of the customary alcoholic fire that warmed his chest.

"It's good," he said in surprise after a few seconds had passed. "What is it?"

"You can't tell?" Reid stared into the glass. He saw liquid the color of light tea flecked with red dots and blurry clouds sloshing around the glass. His eyebrows came together in concentration and he opened his mouth. He had read seventeen essays that month on the analysis of alcohol and how its varying physical traits could affect one's psyche but he did not remember encountering one that looked like this. He sucked air in through his teeth.

"Is it some kind of rum?" he asked hesitantly. The man laughed and looked around.

"You don't really strike me as a wine aficionado. No, you look more like a student to me-"

"Actually, I graduated from college five years ago at the age of eighteen." The man stared at him in surprise.

"You some kind of genius?"

"I have an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and can read 20,000 words per minute while the average adult can only read 250 to 300 words a minute. So what I'm trying to say is…you tell me." The man laughed and Reid stared.

"Okay, so you have an IQ of – what is it, 187? – an eidetic memory, and you can read 20,000 words per minute yet you can't tell the difference between alcohol and very strong tea." Now it was Reid's turn to look surprise.

"But-"

"That burn you feel? Cayenne pepper. The bitterness? Fermentation. It's called Kombucha, ever come across it in those college textbooks of yours?" Suddenly Reid chuckled in embarrassment and the man stared. Reid hadn't realized that Ethan had stopped playing long ago and was giving the two of them a very strange look.

"Yeah, I had it a long time ago but I had completely forgotten about it."

" _Riiiiight_ ," There was a pause in which the two men simply stared at each other, waiting for the other to make the next move. Finally, the man raised his hand; his eyes alight with a mysterious mischievousness. "Derek Morgan," he said simply. Reid waved his hand and Morgan raised his eyebrow.

"Sorry, I don't shake,"

"Why not?" Morgan asked, feigning a look of offense, "my hands are clean."

"Actually they're not. Due to the frequency of hand-to-hand or hand-to-object contact most diseases and viruses are spread through that part of the body. You know, it's actually safer to kiss someone than shake their hands."

"...would you rather have me kiss you?"

"Yes – I mean no! Actually, what I'm saying i-" The man leaned down and kissed him softly on the corner of his lips.

"Stick with the tea, pretty boy," he whispered in his ear. He then straightened up, tipped his fedora, turned on his heel, and walked away.

"Looks like the Irish Whiskey was a good choice," Ethan said, coming up behind him and placing his hand on his seat. Reid jumped again but this time he managed to keep his drink in its container.

"I didn't know that you sold Kombucha."

"Most of the patrons here just aren't interested," Ethan paused and looked at him, "who was that man?"

"I was hoping that you'd be able to tell me…" Ethan shook his head.

"I've never seen him before. Listen," Ethan said suddenly, kneeling down next to him, "I know that the hotel is kind of far-"

"Ethan, it's only five minutes away-"

"-if you want to stay at my place…" Reid shook his head. By then he had managed to convince himself that the man simply was not real. He had appeared too suddenly and had disappeared too fast, almost as if he were a ghost or a very realistic illusion. Besides, this ghost-like man in a felt fedora had kissed him and, as his college 'acquaintances' were fond of saying, no living human being would ever kiss Spencer Reid.

Ethan watched him for a moment. It was obvious that the young genius's mind was somewhere else completely. He sighed and stood up. It never ceased to mystify him that Reid was so intelligent and yet so very stupid.  _I haven't tried Hallelujah in a while_ , he thought to himself as he made is way over to the piano. He ran his fingers softly over the cold surface, glanced at Reid sitting silently in his chair, and began to play.

Xxxxxx

Reid listened as Ethan began to play again. This time a wayward, haunting melody drifted through the room, sending a slight shiver through those who were more accustomed to the seductive songs that graced the bar. He wondered why Ethan had chosen such a melancholy song before he remembered that, as cool minded as he pretended to be, Ethan was subjected to whims and temptations just like everyone else, maybe even more so. By now the memory of Derek Morgan had all but completely faded from his mind until he reached into his pocket and found a damp cloth crumbled there. He pulled it out and looked at it. It was the cloth that Derek Morgan had given him, unmistakable due to the D.M. monogramed in calligraphy on one of the corners. Ghost didn't hand out tangible cloths.

Reid stuffed it back in his pocket but then promptly pulled it back out when he realized that he had absolutely no use for it. He leaned over to place it in the trash bin near his chair but could not bring himself to throw it away. It hovered a few inches above the silver rim, a bright white flag, before Reid pulled it back and stuffed it in his pocket again. It was still wet and leaked onto his legs but, despite everything, he felt no desire to get rid of it or its alcohol-drenched memories just yet.

Xxxxx

Morgan exited the building, pausing just long enough in the doorway so that the camera could catch his face. Once outside he stood still a moment to breathe in the cool night air before walking towards his car. He was surprisingly calm considering what he was about to do and even began to whistle his favorite song at the time, _Luck Be a Lady_ by Frank Sinatra. But his luck hadn't exactly been a lady that night, a fact that he wouldn't fully come to terms with for another few years.

He hopped in his car and revved the engine, relishing its angry purr as it sent vibrations through the soles of his Salvatore shoes and up his legs. He flipped through the stations indecisively but, unable to find anything, jammed the off button and pulled out of the driveway. Luckily for him the road was empty so, when he was sure that he had left the bar a good distance behind, he wrenched his steering wheel around and drove into a neglected grassy plane back the way he came except this time he approached the bar from the back. There he sat in his car, obscured by the shadows, and watched as the occasional waiter or waitress slipped out back to enjoy a cigarette or the lips of one another. Finally, after three hours of sitting still and watching, the number of people leaving the building decreased until only a few drunken patrons remained. They took their last sips and muttered their last curses before being ushered away by the staff who were eager to get home. He knew their shifts and habits very well due, in part, to the breathless murmurings of a disgruntled waitress who, upon his advice, had left the state soon after giving him the information. He knew that in fifteen minutes Patterson, a sallow man who usually lingered about after everyone had gone home, would lock up. And then…

He waited, took a sip of beer from the lukewarm bottle. He'd wait all night if he had to. Ten minutes past, then thirty, then forty-five until, after another hour had passed, he saw what he had been waiting for. A heavy man clad in an expensive Armani suit much like the one that Morgan was wearing walked into the back patio, followed by three men carrying suitcases. The heavy man seemed confident, almost obnoxiously so, and Morgan gathered that he was of the type that preferred to enjoy the spoils of his work as opposed to dealing with the necessities. The other men he knew by name and name only, which was how he liked it. He watched them enter the backdoor, casting furtive glances around them as they did.  _Funny that men so cocky should be afraid of the dark_ , he thought as he took another sip,  _It's not like there's a Derek Morgan hiding in it or anything._ He smiled at his own joke. A yellow light turned on in the top room and Morgan watched as the three shadows passed before it – back and forth, back and forth like they were pacing. One man held something up (a stolen antique necklace, Morgan guessed) and the heavy man joined him in the window. He held the necklace to his face, shook his head, and dropped it on the ground. This went on for about an hour, keeping Morgan very entertained, before there was a sound of glass breaking and a man's cursing. The three men burst through the door with murderous looks on their faces as the heavy man followed close in their wake.

"I would have expected more from you," he yelled after them. His face was red, "I have  _never_  known Percival to reference such idiots until now."

"Watch it, cowboy," one of the men said slowly, turning to face the man, "there are 700 of us and only one of you. Which would you prefer: a large selection of men working with you or a large selection of weapons pointed at your ugly face? You've already pissed off twelve of us." That shut the man up. The man who had spoken made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shot it at the man's face. The heavy man flinched and watched in embarrassment as the men began to laugh.

"See ya, cowboy." They walked away and melted into the darkness beyond the bar. For the longest time the man just stood still and watched them go. Finally he turned away and walked back into the club, slamming the door behind him. Morgan waited ten minutes before picking up his disposable cell phone and dialing his number.

"Who is this?"

"Terry Moore," he said into the phone with a small smile. He remembered Terry Moore. He remembered him very well. "I'm in the back."

"You brought the stuff?"

"I wouldn't be here if I hadn't."

"Right," there was no mistaking the self-satisfaction in the man's voice. Did he honestly think that he was responsible for Morgan's supposed success? "I'll be down, give me a second."  
A few seconds later found the heavy man in the back patio again, a wide grin on his face. He shook Morgan's hand, a bit overenthusiastically.

"Eric," he said.

"Wow," he said, taking a step back, "I didn't expect you to be…you sounded so –  _you know_  – on the phone."

"I sounded so what on the phone?"

"White," the man whispered as if it were obvious. Morgan raised an eyebrow. "So where's the stuff?"

"In the museum where it can be kept safe from men like you," Eric stared at him in shock.

"It…it's not here?"

"Nope,"

"You didn't steal it?"

"Nope," Morgan looked up at the camera angled towards his face. The lens was pitch black as if some of the night had been siphoned into the tiny camera. He liked cameras.

"Then…then why are you here?" the man finally sputtered. Morgan slowly slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at Eric until the man became quite uncomfortable and had to look away.

"Kevin Hartley," Morgan said in a quiet voice. The man flinched. "Do you remember him?"

"I don't know who you're talking about,"

"You should. You strangled him to death. Or do you just strangle a lot of seventeen year old boys to death?"

"No, no! I don't – how did you –" Morgan took a step towards him, his eyes flashing. It was strange; with his hands in his pockets he seemed even more threatening. It was much more frightening not knowing what he planned on doing or when he planned on doing it. Eric swallowed and backed up until the tips of his fingers were pressed against the cold, unyielding wall.

"What would you say to him if he were here now?"

"I...I don't….look, stop – what are you…I didn't do anything!"

"Wrong answer," with that Morgan pulled his fine hands from his pocket and wrapped them around the man's neck.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Morgan lay idly upon the settee, his legs stretched out before him and his favorite gun (which he had lovingly named Clooney) hanging upon a finger of an outstretched hand. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling which seemed to expand forever above him. It was easy for him to lose himself in the fantasy that nothing else existed: there were only the black stairs spiraling around and around in a dizzying way along the oddly translucent white walls until they reached the domed glass ceiling at the top but soon the sound of a refrigerator door being slammed brought back into reality.

"There's a situation in the fridge," a short woman dressed in all-black with silver wedding rings sewn across her collar stepped into the room, breathing heavily. It never ceased to amaze him that she didn't simply choke on the overabundance of oxygen that she took in on a daily basis. She always seemed to be panting (usually in excitement or anticipation) or struggling for breath, giving her a distinctly hound-on-a-trail like impression. She surveyed the mess of fine cigars, wads of cash, and impressive, glinting weapons on the coffee table with satisfaction before turning her green eyes on Morgan. Here he was surrounded by an overabundance of wealth and pleasure and yet he was fast asleep. Five years she had been in the business and still the site of diamonds and mutilated things brought on the excitement that she thought would cease with her amateur days. She pointed in the direction of the kitchen even though she knew that Morgan did not see her. "There's a situation in the -"

"I know," he said without opening his eyes. "Last night another bag of human fingers appeared in the back of the fridge. Any idea who could have put them there?" The woman paused and stared at him in obvious embarrassment.

"Well, I don't…"

"…know who could have put them there?" he laughed. "Did I forget to mention that they were all ring fingers? Mind you, all of the rings were missing…"

She snickered and pounced on the couch in front of him. She sat still for a moment with a pillow hugged to her chest and listened with a reverent attentiveness to the song playing on her iPod. It was the current 'theme song' of the Company thus she had memorized every bridge and breath within the first hour that it had been played at one of Percival's lavish parties.

" _This leather jacket's ripped_

_It tells stories though it's worn_

_It has seen the man that was never, ever born_

_It knows my solitude, it brings warmth to my pain_

_It keeps out the sunlight and lets in the rain_

_It keeps out the sunlight – ooh, and it lets in the rain._ "

"You know, Derek," she said with an enamored glint in her eye. She began to sway side-to-side in time with the jazzy tempo. "One man's treasure is also another man's treasure. But both men's treasure is my absolute right – HA!" She slammed her fist on the cushions and Morgan jumped. He liked Terrence because she seemed just a bit more human than the rest of the Company yet sometimes the lusty inhumanity that drove them all did surface and mar her otherwise harmlessly playful demeanor. The phone began to ring and he straightened up to reload his gun.

"Get a life," he said in a smooth voice before aiming his gun at the wailing object.

_BAM!_

And the poor telephone was no more.

Terrence stared wide-eyed at the white shards that bounced around her sneakers before looking up at him with the same comical look of surprise. "Bad day?" she asked.

"Just…uneventful," he said slowly, "So yes, I had a bad day."

"Right….right." She looked away and began to pack the money in tiny black bags, all the while conscious of the fact that Morgan was watching her with those black-as-night eyes of his. She began to hum along with the music uncomfortably.

" _My last love has shipped_

_She knew my heart, but she was_

_A star gazing woman and she left me because_

_I had an old leather jacket and a faux-golden cane_

_Her polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain_

_Baby, Her Polka dot jacket kept me out of the rain…_ "

"You have something you want to say to me, Terrence?" he asked, scrutinizing his gun with unabashed adoration. When the sunlight filtering in through the windows caught the black metal and illuminated every line and twist of the powerful machine it just looked so…sexy. She bit her lip.

"Derek, I –"

"I told you not to call me that."

"Okay,  _Terry_. Look, I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't tell you this but people are starting to talk. You know, the Company? There have been rumors…"

"Uh-huh…" he pulled the slide back with a loud snap and inspected the barrel with satisfaction. He knew damn well about the rumors.

"Dere-Terry, they're beginning to question your authenticity. No one knows where you came from! Not that it matters to me…"

"I came from the Company in Las Vegas. They all know that."

"Right but, Terry," she put the wad of cash that she had been counting back on the table and sighed. He could tell that she was trying to decide on how best to disguise her next sentence so that it would not sound like the suspicious whispers that floated around the Company. "They...you…you're…well, Terry they know that you're from Las Vegas and the Company over there confirms it but nobody really knows who you  _are_. I mean, I know that the Company operates on secrecy but every man and woman in it has a story or profile, even if they don't speak much of it. Hell, Bobby is practically mute but everybody knows how he works and it's easier to trust him that way," she quickly put her hand over her mouth, "not that dependability is an issue…point is, you just showed up a few months ago out of nowhere – no record, no surefire verification, and no story to your name. All anybody knows about you is that your name is Terry Moore and that you came from Las Vegas. Even I don't know what your damn favorite color is and I'm your best friend," she murmured under her breath. Derek scratched his head with the barrel of his gun and gave her that same infuriatingly knowing look.

"Hey, look at me," he finally said after a moment had passed. She looked up at him and found herself drawn to his mischievous eyes. He was going full Charmer Mode, she knew, but she was not complaining. "You know I love you, right?"

"Well…"

"Just say yes."

"No."

"A 'no' from you is a 'yes' for me,  _baby_ ," he said, flashing his white teeth at her. She couldn't help smiling, "And you know that I appreciate everything that you tell me. But everybody has their own secrets. And so far secrecy is the only thing that has kept me safe all of these years."

"But  _Percival_ …"

"As far as I'm concerned, Percival can go and –" her eyes widened drastically at his next words and she quickly put her hands over her ears. It was a well-known fact that she, along with a hundred other members, had a dangerous infatuation with the man.

"See?! This is exactly why half of the Company doesn't like you. Only you would say something like that."

"Well, maybe that's because…" he sighed and decided to let it drop. He knew that what she said was true: sooner or later the rest of the Company would find it necessary to take a closer look at his resume. Terry Moore had performed a few notable feats in his amateur years but those were fading fast in the minds of the others. It would be easier for him to simply relocate to a new base but he had business that he had to take care of in New Orleans. Besides, Morgan wasn't a man to run away from his problems. No, he preferred to take them head-on. A peaceful sort of silence descended upon them once again, flavored only by the husky voices of the fine singers and the hissing of trees as they brushed against the sides of the mansion. The mansion (a luxuriously spacious building with more window than drywall) had originally been owned by the late Terry Moore so no one had thought to think twice when Morgan had decided to settle in. It was relatively easy: most of the Company had only known Terry on paper and the few that had visited him couldn't care less about the movements of the young man anymore. Morgan figured he had three, maybe four months before people became suspicious enough to investigate but he would be long gone and onto other business before they truly realized what hit them. He continued to watch her.

"You know, the latest-" suddenly he sat bolt upright and flicked his wrist in a violent manner. Terrence didn't even realize what had happened until she looked down and saw a knife pinned to the thick stack of dollar bills beneath her fingers. It was the money that Morgan had taken the night before, after he had murdered Eric. The guns and fine cigars were his, too.

"What are you  _doing_?!" she yelped in surprise.

"That one stays where it is."

"No…" she said slowly. Her breathing began to get heavy again which was a sign that her murderous personality was beginning to take over, "That one – along with my share – is going to Percival…like it should."

"I already paid my dues to the Company," Morgan growled. He stood up and only then did Terrence realize just how darkly intimidating he could be. She watched him stroll over and casually slip the bundle in the pocket of his suit after taking out a small sheaf. "You see this?" he held the sheaf up to her nose and she swiped at it, "Ah-ah-ah. This right here is a class-A example of money tainted by the dirtiest hands that you have the pretty little fortune of  _never_  seeing. Thanks to me, those hands will never taint anything again. This money is going back to where it belongs."

"You're one to talk so righteous, considering you're present company  _which_  30% of all of your profits belongs to! Derek, if you won't give it to me I'll take it from you!"

"You don't want to do that..."

The two stared at each other. Terrence stood ready to pounce as Morgan stared down at her with pitiless eyes. Just as Terrence struck him as disturbingly playful Morgan struck her as a cool-headed, cocky man whose confidence masked a deeper immorality that only the dead had ever had the pleasure of experiencing. He wouldn't hesitate to slice off her hands if it helped him to achieve his means, this much she knew. She laughed.

"I'm just kidding!" she exclaimed. She was wrong to think that punching his shoulder would lighten the mood. "Hey, we have a good thing going here! Let's not ruin it with petty threats and money and stuff, eh, Terry?" She held out her hand. For a minute she thought that he wasn't going to take it and she mentally took stock of the quickest path to the nearest weapon (the poker near the fireplace would have to do) when suddenly he smiled and grasped her hand.

"I couldn't agree more, my friend. Now get out of here before I start causing some real trouble. Go on, now. Shoo."

She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked towards the door. She paused with her hand on the golden handle and slowly turned towards him "Hey, Derek? I'm the only one that you've ever told your real name to, right? Remember that. You trust me." With that she slipped out the door, slowly easing it closed behind her.

Morgan sighed and fished the disposable gun that he had used last night from his suitcase. He tried to remember what he had been thinking about before she had interrupted his train of thought. It had brought him a strange sense of pleasure, whatever it had been or whoever it had been. He threw the phone up in the air and then just as quickly whipped a second gun out of its hidden holster. He clipped the phone right in midair with a precision that would have sent Ripley into a fit and watched as the little black pieces went cascading about the room like black raindrops racing through yellow sunlight.

Suddenly he remembered who he had been thinking of. The man at the bar, the one with the IQ of….he smiled. 187. Something about the sunlight that shone through the crystal windows had reminded him of the man's face. He realized that he didn't know the man's name and this struck him as unfair. The kid had certainly made an impression on him and, due to that, Morgan found him irritatingly unforgettable. He would just have to find out his name. And maybe get his handkerchief back. Or perhaps the latter was unnecessary.

Morgan stuffed the money in his pocket and stepped outside with a clear plan of action in his mind. It was only when he found himself driving faster than usual on the freeway did he realize that he had just been making excuses to see the kid again.

xXxXxXx

Later on that afternoon a handsome man in a black suit showed up at the Hartley residence, claiming to have found a wallet filled with cash on the sidewalk that didn't have any form of ID in it and could it possibly have belonged to them? Mrs. Hartley, a petite African American woman who had lost her son to the hands of a heartless man over three years ago, had sworn that it couldn't have belonged to her and that he should try the next door neighbors. The man had shook his head and insisted on her holding on to it.

"Whoever it was obviously has more than enough money to keep him satisfied. I don't think that anyone will be coming back for it, miss. You take care now."

With that he had walked away, his eyes unusually dark beneath his black sunglasses.

xXxXxXxXx

Reid sat on the balcony of his hotel room, poring over a thick book of criticism on the works of Sir Conan Doyle. He wasn't one to sit outside and 'enjoy' the sunlight (too often it gave him headaches) but Ethan was adamant in his texts when he told him to leave the cold confines of his hotel room and make peace with the New Orleans sun. So he had thrown on a pair of sunglasses, grabbed the nearest book, and submitted himself to a day of reading in the sunlight. He himself had submitted an essay of critiques on the subject but the editors had rejected it. Something about him using a psychological profile to compare Sir Conan Doyle to a mission-oriented serial killer in order to get a point across had rubbed them the wrong way. Now he read through the essays at an almost impossible speed, his lips moving silently as he took in the tiny black words on the page. He had basically been saying the same things in his essay...he'd just been saying it in a different way. His cellphone beeped and he picked it up. There was a single text from Hotch with a link attached to it.

_I received this from an officer in Nevada. Do you mind taking a look at it when you have time?_

_P.S. I hope that you're enjoying the weather out there._

Reid opened the link and scrolled through it quickly. It was a letter of concern from a commanding officer on a trending crime rate that seemed to be crossing state lines. There was also an attached chart showing a spiked increase in crime that didn't seem to be completely out of the ordinary (a fact which the officer admitted to.) There was also mention of some company…an exceedingly patient killer…a man named –

"Ah, I told you someone was using that room. Hello there!" Reid looked up and saw a man leaning out of the balcony in the room next to him. A woman was leaning over his shoulder. When she saw Reid looking she smirked and left the balcony. Reid pursed his lips in a smile and waved back at the man.

"The name's Percival. I'm the manager of this place.  _Wellll_ , I basically own it but no one wants to admit that."

"Ah," Reid said, unsure of what else to say. He was hoping that the man would go away but he could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to talk. He closed his book regretfully and stood up, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he did so.

"My friend and I have a bet going," he said, crossing his arms over the black railing. He struck Reid as a man constantly up to no good and that his talking to him was only a slight deviation from his usual mischievousness.

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"She thinks you're a painter. She says you have those fine, graceful hands needed to hold a paint brush steady. I think you're a student desperately trying to earn your degree, judging by the way that you're finger has been moving across that page," he gestured unnecessarily at Reid's hands, "Now, I have fifty bucks and a spare favor on this one, so how about you just tell me that you're a student and we can get this over with?"

"Actually I'm a part of a special branch of the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit. We help the departments catch serial killers by providing them with psychological evaluations which the Unknown Subject is likely to follow judging by past –"

"You're FBI, huh?" Reid could hear the sudden interest in the man's voice, "You catch the bad guys?"

"Well, yeah…"

"You hear that, Jordan?" he called to the woman in the room behind him, "He's FBI. Isn't that wonderful?" The woman said something that Reid couldn't hear and the man laughed. He turned back to him with a pantomime of a smile on his face. "What's your name, cowboy?"

"Spencer Reid," Reid said slowly. He didn't like the man. He didn't like him at all.

"Well, Mister Spencer Reid. If you ever need anything – anything at all – I'm usually in room 221. You should stop by for tea and scrambled eggs sometime. I swear, Jordan makes the best scrambled eggs that you will ever have the pleasure of experiencing."

"Thanks…I'll consider it."

"Don't let me down, cowboy." He cast him a salute, turned on his heel, and went back inside. Reid returned to his seat and reopened the book in his lap. But he couldn't focus anymore. He was beginning to wonder if telling Percival that he was an FBI agent was a good thing.


	3. Chapter 3

There was nothing more soothing to Ethan than the sounds in the bar on a Sunday night. Most people didn't believe him when he said that he found a peaceful sort of rhythm in silver glasses clinking, jazzy women laughing, and the often experimental music that came from the drifting whims of the various piano players. These 'unlinked pieces of paradise,' as he called them merely embellished the entertainment of the ignorant others but Ethan found sustenance in the sounds. He simply could not survive without them.

A man came up to him and ordered a martini, all the while keeping his eye on a pretty dancing angel nearby. Ethan knew the woman. He had dated her a few months back. She was a wild card: a woman who would whip a man just as soon as she would kiss him. Every so often he'd get guys and girls like them in the bar. These were the shifty-eyed patrons who called everyone and everything 'cowboy' and often had their fingers looped around some poor, flattered soul's necklace or expensive tie. He suspected that they had something to do with the death of his boss. He thought it funny that they should still hang around the place, considering the fact that the man had been murdered just two days ago. On the contrary they crept and danced about the place as usual as if nothing had happened.

Yet it was possible that they did not know. Two days ago he had arrived at the bar early in the morning to find two policemen lingering by the front door. They had told him in hushed voices that the body of his boss had been found out back. He had been strangled and quite a few of his more expensive possessions had been stolen. They had told him not to worry about it and to just go on and open the bar (strange advice coming from two cops) and then, much to his surprise, had slipped him an envelope containing three crisp hundred dollar bills.

"We'd like to keep this quiet," they had told him with unblinking eyes. And then, without any further questioning, they had simply walked away.

Of course, Ethan had found the whole business clumsy and uncomfortable but what was he going to do? He couldn't afford to stir up trouble nor could he afford to shake his head at the NOPD's dirty money. Besides, he felt as if he surrounded himself with too many dangerous people on a daily basis. He couldn't take a gamble at having the NOPD training their guns on him, too.

Another man slid into the stool in front of him and ordered a Cosmopolitan and then on second thought changed his drink to a spicy Kombucha. Ethan barely paid attention to the man in the black hat and went into the back. It was only when he was staring into the old refrigerator did he think to find it odd that someone would make such a drastic change in their drink, odder still that someone would order the drink in the first place. He grabbed the cold bottle from the back and slammed the fridge. He had a feeling that he'd be able to match the drink to a face, a face that he wasn't too keen on seeing for reasons of his own.

He returned and dropped the bottle on the oak counter with a loud 'clunk.' The man in front of him raised an eyebrow at him before sliding a folded twenty dollar bill his way, much more than what the drink was actually worth. "Here take it easy, my man," he said in a smooth voice. Ethan casually slid the money back his way and told him in an equally smooth voice that it was on the house. But before he could slide it back all the way Morgan reached out and stopped him with a small, mocking smile playing about his lips. "I insist," he said.

Ethan stared at him for a moment before casually slipping the bill in his vest pocket. He then turned away and began to busy himself with something else.

"So where is he?" He turned towards Morgan again with suspicion in his eyes.

"I'm sorry?" he said.

"Come on, don't play dumb," Morgan surveyed the rim of the bottle with interest as if he hadn't even been speaking to the man at all. Ethan took a few steps closer, his suspicion replaced by pure disbelief. Who did the man think he  _was_?

"Your friend. The one with the high IQ and diamond-shaped…" Morgan ran a finger around his lips before shaking his head and dropping his hand. Ethan new who he was talking about. It occurred to him that the twenty dollars hadn't been for the drink at all but rather the man had been bribing him. This, however, is not what made him hold his tongue. He was immensely suspicious of the man. He dressed and spoke like the more wily patrons of the club and, besides, Ethan had trouble trusting his darkly seductive looks. Men like him liked to disguise their power with charm and playful banter but, in the end, they were as devious as the worst.

 _Just like some men disguise their jealousy with spite_ , Ethan thought to himself. He had seen the swift gesture of affection that had passed between the man and his friend. But he was careful not to let his jealousy show, so careful, in fact, that it was easy for him to feel justified in hating the man.

"Who's asking?" Ethan asked.

"Someone who you don't want to mess with…"

"Then what makes you think that I'd let you anywhere near him?" Morgan leaned back and gave a short, appreciative laugh that held no such careless mirth.

"I'm sorry, I must be missing something. You're his daddy, right? Or an…overbearing brother? Either way," Morgan stood up and put his hand on his belt. Ethan saw the glint of a blade there but he was not afraid, "I don't think it's your call."

Luckily, right at that moment the man that they had been speaking of stepped from around the corner with a thick book held open in his hand. "Ethan, you will not believe this but I was reading up on the many factors leading up to the Incan conquest and – um," he suddenly noticed Morgan leaning across the counter. A smile broke out across his face, mirroring Morgan's perfectly. "Derek Morgan," he said in surprise.

"Hey," he reached his hand out across the counter and then, after an awkward pause, pulled it back with a handsome laugh. His obvious joy at seeing Reid again seemed to contradict the dark persona slathered in shadows that poured from the brim of his fedora and slipped over his body. It was a bit frightening yet at the same time Reid couldn't help but notice that his black suit-clad appearance had a distinctly artistic, if not surreal, feel to it. He had known and read about other men that had had such a dark appeal. Unfortunately, they were all killers. Nonetheless, Reid let the warmth that flowed through Morgan's palm when he pressed it against the side of his face flow through him even though he was unfamiliar with such gestures. "Long time no see," he said with that signature glint in his brown eyes.

"Yeah," Reid said breathlessly. He cleared his throat. "Ethan said that you don't come around often," he saw the dark look that Morgan shot at his friend, "what's the occasion?"

"Getting up with the aide of only four cups of coffee this morning," Morgan grinned at him conspiratorially and took another sip of his drink.

"Only?" Reid raised his eyebrows, "A recovering addict, I see."

"You have no idea. Also," here Morgan hesitated. He swished the blurry drink around the bottle without saying anything until finally he mustered up the courage to say, "I never found out your name."

"Are you saying that that's part of the occasion?"

Morgan didn't answer and instead stared into the drink. Finally he drew his eyes up to Reid's and tried to smile his winning, light-hearted smile that he used to hide deeper emotions but something about the man's eyes – really nothing more than a flash like a diamond buried in darkness – sent shards of ice swimming through his blood and kicked his heart into a violent flutter. He mentally cursed the man and the strange power that he unknowingly wielded over him.

"Tell me your name," he growled in a low voice. Reid stared at him.

"Spencer Reid," And just like that whatever tense spell that had temporarily settled upon them lifted and the magic of their setting drifted back into them again.

"Well,  _Spencer Reid_ ," Morgan said with relish. He liked the name. He liked it a lot. It tasted…wonderful on his tongue like a drop of spice and honey. "Is it just me or is it hot in here? I could do with a smoothie or somethin'."

"That's …very interesting." Reid said awkwardly. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and looked away. There was a pause and then – "Oh, do you want me to go with you?" Morgan burst out laughing, a sound that immediately silenced the bar.

"My man," he exclaimed, clapping Reid on the back. "Come on, I know a place just around the corner."

Reid was about to follow him when a rough hand landed on his shoulder and pulled him back. He flinched and spun around with angry, flashing eyes but his look softened when he saw his friend standing before him.

"What are you doing?" he asked gruffly, his grip tightening on his book. Ethan gave him a look.

"I had no idea that you were so adverse to touch," Ethan said with a hidden note of irony. Before Reid could question him he leaned in closer and whispered, "I need to talk to you."

"Ethan," Reid glanced over his shoulder at Morgan who was waiting at the doorway, "now really isn't the time."

"Who's dictating that, I wonder? Spencer, my friend, I know that that man is no good for you."

"How could you possibly know that?" Reid asked with more venom than he knew. Ethan looked at him for a moment in silence, his face swathed in shadows.

"I just know," he said finally. Of course, Reid valued and respected Ethan's opinions. Hell, he valued and respected them as much as he did the members of his team. Now, more than ever, he felt the weight of his friend's earnestness settle upon his shoulders but the irresistible and enigmatic charm of Derek Morgan tugged at his soul from the opposite direction. He turned, submitting to the tug and pull, and flashed Ethan an apologetic look over his shoulder.

"I-I gotta go," he mumbled under his breath. He readjusted the book under his arm and walked away with his head held low, not once looking back at Ethan.

xXxXxXxXx

"So you're telling me that you think a killer can be good?"

"Good and evil is actually a post-conceived notion that we as modern day humans have latched on to considering the contradictory fact that if-"

"Hey, hey, hey. I'm asking for a straight answer here."

"Oh, you want a straight answer? Well, assuming the concept of good versus bad to be absolute then…yes. I do believe that a killer can be good."

"So a psychopath strangles someone in a back alley and you're saying that he still has goodness in him?"

"That depends on what drove him to do it. He may have heard voices which told him to kill in which case he probably felt like he didn't have a choice. Or perhaps he truly believes that he is doing the world a favor in strangling the man in which case he's…simply acting out of his own pre-conceived notion of goodness."

"Hmm," Morgan took a sip of his smoothie and pondered what Reid had said. "And you truly believe that?"

"I do."  
They continued to walk on in silence along the crowded bridge. A storm was gathering over the distant ocean and already tiny droplets of rain had begun to splatter their face and hands but neither of them seemed to care. As other people began to shiver and run into the safety of waiting taxis or bus stops with umbrellas tilting dangerously in the wind Morgan and Reid simply shuffled on across the darkening wood to the tune of their own peaceful music. Both had zipped up their jackets but, other than that, they really did not care for the sudden rain. Morgan sighed.

"I doubt others would share your sentiment. They believe that a killer is a killer and a killer is a bad person devoid of remorse no matter what." Morgan said. Reid shrugged.

"People are often misinformed and immediately struck by fear at the mere mention of a killer. What about you? I've been talking this whole time but I barely know your opinion on the matter." Morgan took his last sip – the sharp  _ssszzzzt_  sound cut through the sweet, frosty air and made the people around him frown in annoyance – and then threw the empty cup into a nearby trashcan. They were almost at the end of the boardwalk. He could see the ocean spread out before them like a beautiful jeweled carpet painted by the slowly slipping sunset.

"I feel the same," he said quietly. They reached the end of the bridge and he folded his arms behind his back, staring distantly into the babbling water beneath his silver-tipped boots. They must have presented a strange site: he, with his crisp white button-up collar sticking out from beneath his leather jacket and ringed fingers and Reid in his tan woolen vest beneath a grey rain-jacket, clutching a book tightly beneath his arm. But there was no one there to witness the strange and beautiful site. By now everyone had fled in the face of the storm and only Morgan, Reid, and a few lost souls remained upon the old, wooden bridge. They watched the water jump and twitch with every heavy raindrop. Morgan removed his fedora and tilted his head back, letting the rain drip from his parted lips.

"I'd be much better off if I let more of that pass these lips then the other stuff."

"That and Kombucha," Reid said. Morgan laughed. He then looked at him with a curious gaze.

"You really are a genius, you know. In more ways than one. How do you go about applying that?"

"Sorry?" Reid said, drawing his eyes away from the water. Morgan shook his head.

"I'm asking what you work as, genius."

"I'm a –" Reid hesitated. He wanted to tell Morgan the truth: that he worked as a FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit but he still wasn't feeling so hot about telling Percival that bit of news. It's not that he didn't trust Morgan – well, perhaps he didn't, he wasn't sure – but he felt it best to hold off on telling him for a little while longer. "I'm a…painter," he said, thinking quickly. Morgan gave him a disbelieving look. "And I'm also a student. I'm trying desperately to earn my degree…"

"Really? I would have put you at a psychologist or somethin' – no, an FBI agent. Isn't there a special branch that deals with the psychology of killers?"

"The Behavioral Analysis Unit," Reid said quickly. Then, realizing his mistake, he cursed himself and looked away towards the water. He could feel Morgan's gaze hot on his face like two points of fire and he hoped against hope that he wasn't blushing. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Morgan looked away. By now the rain was falling in greyish sheets that obscured their view and made the surface of the water dance in violent jerks and plucks. Morgan inhaled the cool scent, letting it fill his body and color his thoughts.

"You're a liar," he said with his eyes closed. Reid looked at him in surprise, "I can tell that you're lying about your job. But I appreciate that, I really do," he suddenly looked over at Reid, making the man shiver, "You value secrecy for the sake of your safety, I'm guessing, which means that you value yourself. A worthy endeavor, I think. You're a valuable person, Spencer Reid." He let this sink in for a moment before continuing, "My father used to say that it was both a shame and a blessing that people learned to value secrecy. It's funny but I used to love it when I was little and now I need it like I need food, water, shelter, and Chinese food every other Saturday night. Point is, I won't pry. You keep your secrets, I'll keep mine."

"Thanks….your father sounds like a great man," Reid said because he didn't know what else to say. Morgan shrugged and turned away from the water with downcast eyes.

"Was…he was a great man," he cleared his throat and suddenly cursed the rain in annoyance, "come on, we should get out of here. You got a place to go?"

"Yeah, I'm staying at a hotel nearby."

"All right…all right," Morgan made a move to walk away but suddenly he stopped and looked at him over his shoulder. He could barely see Reid through the pouring rain so he turned and moved in closer under the pretense of wanting to say something. Their breaths collided in frosty white blurs before them. He could see himself reflected and distorted in Reid's eyes and he could smell the rainy scent rising from the young man's neck. He smelled like coffee, old books, and a muffled sweetness that Morgan could not place. He opened his mouth to speak – he didn't know what would come tumbling from his faithless, black heart- and Reid, unaware of his actions, parted his lips, too but before either man could slip into the unspoken, unacknowledged temptation Morgan pulled away. He straightened his jacket, turned on his heel, and stalked away leaving Reid standing alone with a screaming heart in the cold, cold rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and as ready as ever to get this Sperek train rollin', chuggin', crashin', 'n burnin' (not necessarily in that order.) Trust me, things (both sexy and scary) are going to start speeding up after this chapter. Spoiler: Reid's about to get his scrambled eggs and tea, if you know what I mean.


	4. Chapter 4

Reid returned to the hotel later that night drenched with rain but curiously warm, almost uncomfortably so. He wanted to shrug off the heavy, water-soaked vest, slip off the pants and socks that now clung to his legs in an irritating way, and lie naked on top of the covers. It was one of those little things that people could never imagine Doctor Reid actually doing – he was a genius, after all, and didn't geniuses prefer to spend all of their time feeding off of books? – but he  _was_  human and the moist heat that rose from his body and clung to his clothes annoyed him.

He smiled a tight, pursed smile and fluttered his hands in some sort of greeting at the receptionist. The woman merely stared back at him and snapped a wad of overly pink gum between her lipstick stained teeth in response. She looked to him like a woman unconcerned with her surroundings, especially the comings and goings of her boss's  _boss's_  clients, but when he turned his back to her to press the elevator button she quickly picked up the phone and punched in several numbers. The dial tone seemed to last forever and she clicked her nails upon the polished wood as she waited with impatience. Finally the tone cut off mid-ring and a man's sleepy voice came through.

"He's here," she said as she watched Reid step into the elevator. The man on the other line said nothing and simply hung up before she had a chance to ask about her well-earned payment for the task.

XXxXx

Reid stepped out of the elevator and into the empty hallway. With its dusty lamps and perfectly uniform doors it seemed to expand forever before him, growing longer and longer by the second. Or perhaps he was just a bit dizzy again. Dizziness was a new side effect that he had been having with his headaches. He put his hand to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut but after a moment he realized that there was no pain, no excruciating throbbing of his temple or bright, blurry colors. So if he wasn't having a headache then what was it?

He sighed, slipped his card into the thin metal slot and placed his hand on the cold handle, relishing the feel of its coolness before pushing the door open into an eerily dark room. He tried to think of what had made him feel this way. He had gone to visit Ethan, run into Morgan, walked with Morgan…

It was probably nothing.

Suddenly the door to the room a few doors down flew open and out stepped Percival with a wide grin on his face.

"Spencer! My old friend!" he proclaimed, throwing his arms out wide as if Spencer was a long-lost brother that he was welcoming home. Spencer took a wary step back. He could feel his heart begin to thump painfully in his chest.

"Percival," he said as pleasantly as he could. "H-how have you been?" His hands tightened around his shoulder strap and he took a step back. He didn't trust the man's over-exuberance. He did not trust it at all. Two slim men of the type that hid in alleyways and beat curious wanderers to a pulp stepped out from behind Percival and lingered in the hall, their thuggish eyes never leaving Spencer's face. One of the men began to crack his ringed knuckles with a gold-toothed smile on his face.

"Good, good. When will you be joining us for tea and scrambled eggs, cowboy?" Percival asked. The two men took another step forward. Spencer took a step back. By this time he had backed all the way into the hall leading into his room and while he longed to slam the door in their faces and set all of the locks he didn't want to appear awkward less Percival was actually being sincere, which Reid was seriously beginning to doubt.

"Actually, I don't know if I'd be able to," Reid said as he slowly eased the door closed. All he had to do was push the door a few more inches and he'd be, well, relatively safe from the unblinking fear that made him force his lips into a grim smile. But he never got to close the door. Before he could so much as blink Percival called something out to the men in a foreign tongue. They kicked the door open and sprang at Reid. One held a smooth hand to Reid's lips and a blade to his throat while the other forced his hands behind his back.

"Come now. That wasn't so hard, now was it? You could have just come on your own will but  _nooooo_  you just had to do it the hard way." Percival said in an overly-sweet voice as he watched the whole affair from the doorway. One of the men bent Reid over at the waist and marched him awkwardly out of the door. Reid felt the rusty blade lift from the front of his neck and settle at the back where the man kept it firmly in place. He felt cool sweat begin to dampen his forehead and armpits but this discomfort was negligible in comparison to the predicament that he now found himself in.

"Mm-ph," he tried uttering Percy's name but the man at his side simply squeezed his mouth until a smattering of reddish-pink began to appear on Reid's aching cheeks. Kicking out wouldn't have done him any good: it was obvious that the seemingly sadistic men were desperate for any excuse to do him some harm. The most that Reid could do was stumble along complacently and hope that someone – anyone – would step out of the elevator or from their room. But, seeing as fate would not be so kind, he knew that his safety lay in his silence.

The two men followed Percival into his room where they then shoved Reid towards a fancy dinette. Another much larger man sporting a pair of sunglasses, grabbed Reid by the shoulders and pushed him into one of the glassy chairs. Reid looked around and tried to catalogue any and all escape routes but it seemed to him as if black clad men were suddenly appearing everywhere: blocking windows and doors with their violet-brimmed fedoras and thin smirks. Out of this featherless murder stepped Jordan in a gold satin dress that clung shamelessly to her every move. She smiled nastily at him before throwing a porcelain plate full of scrambled eggs in front of him.

"I made eggs!" she announced cheerily as globs of yellow and white tumbled over his hands and onto his pants. Reid looked around for an exit again but the man with the sunglasses had moved up behind him and placed his hand on the back of Reid's chair thus obstructing quite a bit of his view. Percival slid into the seat in front of them and sighed in a satisfied way.

"I want some of that," he said, picking one of the few remaining pieces off of Reid's plate. Jordan snickered and crossed her arms.

"I'll give you want I want when I want, got that?" Percival laughed.

"You want what I want, so it's all good," he giggled for a moment longer before finally taking Reid's fork and pulling it in and out of the spaces between his teeth, "Speaking of what I want….tell me more about your little cop business."

"There's nothing to say," Reid said with as much patience as he could muster, "I work for the BAU in Quantico."

"Nothing to say?! Why, you sure had a lot to say when you were on that balcony a while back. What's wrong? Romeo gotcha tongue, Juliet? What if I bite one of your lips off, you think Romeo will bring your tongue back?"

Reid didn't know what to think of this threat until Jordan came up behind him and forced his lips together. Reid whimpered in astonishment mingled with fear as Percival leaned over the table, his wickedly pearly teeth bared in excitement. It was only after Reid had strained every muscle trying to squirm out of the hands that held him down did Percival finally back away.

"Speak!" he shouted.

"I work for a special section of the FBI called the Behavioral Analysis Unit out in Quantico. Our main job is to use behavioral sciences – the study of the human psychology – to aid in criminal investigations. Happy?"

"You report to the  _eff-bay-ey,_ cowboy?" Percival asked lazily. He suddenly seemed subdued and bored by the whole affair yet still he watched Reid as a wise, calculating cat might watch an even wiser bird. Reid nodded. "But you're not a cop?" Reid shook his head again and Percival laughed. "No, you're not. I bet you couldn't even fathom getting me in handcuffs. Much less Jordan or Mikey over there." Everyone snickered and threw a glance at the man with the gold teeth standing in a shadowy corner. The man hooked his fingers in his pockets and hunched his shoulders in an act of shyness that Reid doubted was sincere. "And yet you are connected with the FBI. Very much so. You're like a little marionette or somethin'," suddenly Percival was behind him, his smooth lips only inches from Reid's ear. Slowly his fingers began to dance up and down Reid's neck, making the man cringe uncomfortably.

"Speaking of marionettes…I have a few. There are very powerful men and women who do my bidding around New Orleans and beyond. They jump when I say jump, dance when I say dance, and cut throats when I say that I'm displeased. No, not them," Percival cooed upon noticing Reid glance at the men that surrounded them, "but very, very important people in the government. However, don't underestimate the power of these men standing before you. Oh no, they too jump upon the chance to spill blood, true. But the other men and women," here Percival stood up and shimmied over to his side of the table, "well, they can make things happen. Lovely things happen. For me. And in return I make lovely things happen. For them. So you see, mister Eff Bay Ey, if one tiny little agent were to step in and cause even the slightest bit of trouble, well…he'd have to be exterminated, right? I mean, it's a powerful system that he'd be disrupting."

"I don't understand," Reid said with a furrowed brow. He realized that he should have been concentrating all of his time and energy on trying to escape but there was just one thing that he had to know, "What sort of exchange is involved in this…I don't know…Company?"

Percival turned and stared appreciatively and quite implicitly at Jordan in her golden dress before turning back to Reid. "Money. What else?"

"I understand that. But money in exchange for what?"

Percival opened his mouth to speak but before he could answer the man who had tackled Reid earlier took a step forward. "I think cowboy here's asking too many questions. It's time for us to dispose of his scrawny ass and get on with it."

"I don't remember asking you anything, Easton. Perhaps it's time for  _us_  to dispose of  _your_ scrawny ass….that is, unless you learn to keep it in check for future reference. Gentleman," Percival gestured lazily with his hand and two men stepped forward. Reid watched in horror as they violently forced the wild-eyed man into a subdued position on the floor. Percival sniffed and tossed his head, not even deigning to glance at what was happening behind him. "Take him in the back. Make him forget his name and remember mine instead, will you?" The two men dragged Easton into a back room and slammed the door shut behind them. Due to his extensive engagement with serial killers and their bloody inclinations he was able to imagine a few things that could happen behind those doors.

"Anyway," Percival drawled on, "I should get to the point. Yes. You're a man of free will and such, cowboy. It's your choice. You can choose to be that little agent who got crushed by – what was it you called us? Ah yes, the Company. I like that title – or you can be that little agent who walked away with five thousand dollars in cash," here he casually slid an envelope across the table with a naughty smile, "because he chose to look the other way and, on occasion, offer his pretty little assistance. Your choice."

Suddenly Reid was yanked up from his chair and the yellow envelope was shoved into his chest. He grabbed it instinctually and let himself be prodded and shoved towards the door. His mind was spinning fast – much too fast for comfort – and it was only when he had stumbled against the wall opposite the doorway did he realize what it all meant.

He had been told to back off of a corrupt organization by a very psychopathic crime lord. They would not hesitate in killing him if he did not comply.

He walked back to his room with numb feet and cold hands. He had to get out of there and fast. Forget the money, forget the Company, forget Morgan. He had to  _leave_.

The room was dark and unwelcoming as ever and it seemed to take forever for him to find the light switch. He finally found it and flicked it hurriedly. The room was bathed in a soft golden light and immediately he began to search around for the things that he would need to take. Clothes, books, those could all be left behind. He tossed the envelope with the money on a side table and began to throw important things into a duffel bag. But he couldn't stop his mind from wandering even though his hands worked at a furious pace. Exactly what was the Company? How influential were they? Could they have been linked to…

His hands grew heavier and heavier with each toss until finally he no longer had the strength to lift them anymore. His mind was suddenly burdened by a thousand thoughts and unanswered questions that he wanted, no, needed to know the answer to. He could run away, sure, and hide away in the safety of Quantico's anonymity, Hotch's severity, and the comfort of his worn book case but he'd never be able to run away from the intrigue and mystery of it the Company. Already his mind had spun a dozen link and webs connecting the Company to things that he had heard around New Orleans. He couldn't just leave it behind.

He muttered a quiet curse and dug around until he found his cellphone. Fingers shaking, he scrolled through the texts until he found what he was looking for. There were twelve pages worth of information contained in the attachment that Hotch sent him but he was up for it. He spent the next hour copying them out word for word on separate pieces of paper. This way he'd be able to absorb the words and, through the process of rewriting them, find new connections that he would not have been able to see on the tiny little screen.

Finally, at around 12:30 he rose from his desk with twelve wrinkled pages in his hands. He was tired but satisfied and when he slipped his bulging bag over his shoulder he felt as if he had a ton of bricks hanging from the straining straps. He turned the lights out and put his hand on the cool handle again but keen instinct caused him to stop and peer through the peephole first. What he saw made his heart beat faster.

Two men from Percival's entourage stood outside of door comparing what he thought to be bruised knuckles. It was obvious that they were going for a relaxed, hang-out-in-the-hallway appearance but Reid knew better than to think that he was safe in just strolling outside with his bag packed to leave. Percival had obviously intended for them to act as sentries outside of his doorway. Who knew what they would do to him if he were to try and leave the place.

Reid sighed in frustration and backed away from the door. He flicked the light switch on again along with the bathroom switch and the small table lamp. It was better for them to see the light shining beneath his door and think that he was awake and alert instead of asleep and thus vulnerable.

He sat on the bed with a heavy ' _thumph_ ' and chucked his bag across the room. It was unfair, this game that he had been backed into, and he had to figure out how to battle his way out of it. Although he had never been a fan of wounding criminals he desperately yearned for his gun or at least the assuring feel of his holster against his thigh. But of course he hadn't brought it. He didn't think that a visit to his best friend would lead to an association with an out-and-out group of criminals.

There was one thing that he could do. He knew that he would have to do it ever since he first saw Percival poke his head out of his doorway. Perhaps the FBI agent in him knew that he would have to do it all along. He picked up the twelve pages of notes and set it on his lap. He would study it all night. Not once would he let himself lapse into a gentle sleep.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Reid hated pecans.

The mere thought of them made him sick. He wasn't necessarily allergic to them but the overpowering taste and funny texture made him feel very nauseas. Now he sat on his hotel bed and stared at the plates before him with a growing sense of loathing. On one plate sat the desecrated remains of a caramel-drizzled cake and on the other sat a mound of sticky pecans. The sight of them was threatening but he knew what he had to do. He took a breath in, closed his eyes, and put a handful in his mouth.

The smell and taste of them washed over him like a powerful wave. Every fiber of his being begged him to spit the foul things out but, after placing his hand over his mouth to stop himself from yielding to his desire, he grabbed another handful and stuffed it in.

There were a few holes in his plan and these he meditated on as he stumbled to the bathroom, his teeth working stiffly against the mushy nuts. But holes in the plan were inevitable and, anyway, he was desperate to get out of the tiny prison. Two days he had been confined to his room, two days in which he could not leave without being trailed by Percival's rambunctious men. Only once had he tried to get to the bottom floor of the hotel but when he reached the elevator the men became a bit too hands-on and threatening for his taste and he wondered why the hotel management simply turned their heads when they rammed the barrels of their guns into his stomach. Reid didn't know how long Percival planned to keep him thus restrained but he didn't want to stay long enough to find out. He could have called Ethan for help but he didn't want to put him, or anyone else that he could have called, in such danger.

So he had resorted to using the pecans.

He stared at his face in the mirror. Aside from the sickened expression and the usual dark eyes he looked perfectly fine, which would simply not do for his plan. And so he began to slap at his cheeks and his neck, occasionally resorting to scratching to make the look as realistic as possible. After a few minutes the skin above his shoulders was blotted with angry red marks and flushes. He splashed warm water on his face, took a last pained look in the mirror, and decided that he was ready.

He stumbled out of the bathroom and straight into the hotel door, pausing once to moan loudly. Immediately the voices on the other side of the door fell quiet. Reid listened and the men on the other side did the same until, reassured, they resumed their conversation.

"Hey, hey!" One of the men said in delight when Reid finally opened the door. Neither of them seemed to care that he was bent almost double over the doorknob. "We were just talking about you, cowboy!"

"No," the other man said, "I thought we were talking about a dead man walking - you know, the one who blabbed to his coworkers over at the FBI station? I heard he was roughed up a bit from behind right before his body was dumped-"

"Ha ha," Reid interjected dryly. He didn't think he wanted to hear any more about the FBI agent whose fate seemed to foreshadow his own. He pressed his hand against his stomach and groaned. "I…I think the kitchen put pecans in my breakfast. Do you mind asking them if they did?"

"No," one of the men – Reid guessed his name was Cyrus judging by the name embroidered on the pocket of his suit shirt – took out a tiny blade and began to poke at his finger with it. He had become bored with the young agent already and no doubt wanted to get back to taunting him. "I do mind. Why the hell does it matter?"

"Because I'm allergic to pecans."

After a moment of shocked consideration both men seemed to finally notice Reid's wet forehead and red cheeks. A look of surprise revealed itself on Cyrus's face before it was quickly shadowed by annoyance. The other man – the more submissive partner – glanced between Reid and Cyrus with a confused look.

"Then what the hell did you eat them for?!" Cyrus shouted.

"I didn't know that the kitchen had added them," Reid said angrily. He was beginning to feel the effects of crippling nausea taking over – something that he hadn't factored into his plan. The pecans were supposed to make him only slightly sick, not produce a full-on reaction. Already an uncomfortably warm sweat was beginning to replace the water from his sink _. Arguing with them won't help_ , Reid reminded himself as his stomach gave a loud gargle of displeasure. He took a breath in. "Look, if I don't receive medical attention soon I'm going to go into anaphylactic shock which means that I might be dead in less than 30 minutes. I need to go to the hospital"

"Oh yeah, I've heard about that. Didn't Josie force some woman that was allergic to peanuts to eat buckets of them or somethin'? He said she went into anaphy….anafitactic shock and got all pale and sweaty like this guy. Died within ten minutes."

"Cyrus," Reid said, ignoring the other man. He stared at Cyrus through itching, watering eyes. His next words were slow and tinged with aggression. "I don't think Percival would want a dead FBI agent on his hands. It wouldn't look very good in the papers." Cyrus smiled.

"What would you know, you little Virginia rat? On the contrary, there's nothing that he enjoys more than a dead FBI agent. And you know what? I think you're bluffing. A splash of water and the right amount of moaning might have fooled your mother in grade school but me? Oh no – you're not fooling me. Get back in that room."

"Please!" Panic was beginning to set in. Whether it was due to the thought of being forced to remain in the hotel room or a side effect of his reaction, Reid did not know. "At least let me go to the nurse's center downstairs. I won't breathe a word of this, I swear. In fact, I won't be able to breathe at all if I don't get help soon."

"Get back, cowboy!" Reid gasped as Cyrus wrapped his hand around his neck and shoved him backwards into the room.

"You're making a mistake!"

"I don't make mistakes."

"I-"

"Cyrus!"

Both Reid and Cyrus turned to look at the other man who, up until that moment, had watched the whole affair with his hands hooked in his pockets. He shoved himself forward and grabbed Reid's wrist. "Look at his face," he said as he pulled Reid out of the room, "It's all red and stuff. Do you honestly think a nervous little worm like this would have scratched it up or somethin' just to pretend like he was sick? No." Cyrus tried to scowl at Reid but it was obvious by the way that he eyed Reid's cheeks that he was uneasy. "And besides. He's been wheezin' ever since he walked out of that door – and it's gotten worse. Trust me, I've been listening carefully this whole time. This kid ain't fakin'. I say we go and get Percival-"

"No!" Cyrus growled. This time he grabbed Reid's wrist and held on tight. "No, Percival's busy. He'd kill us if we took him away from the party. Come on," Cyrus shook Reid impatiently, "we're going to the nurse. Don't you try anything funny unless you want to lose something precious."

Once, when Reid was young, he had had to give a presentation on something that interested him. It was a part of his high school's Appreciation Month in which the students were expected to give a report on the unique things that they appreciated to the whole school, parents included. When his name was called in the day of his presentation Reid had excitedly hopped out of his seat and scanned the audience. His mother was supposed to be there, watching him with sympathetic eyes along with all of the other parents. But she wasn't. Reid had desperately scanned the audience for her kind and gentle face until his eyes burned and his breath grew heavy. That was when somebody leaned forward, poked his thigh, and whispered, "Dork." And then, like an avalanche, the humiliating words and laughter tumbled in. He was suddenly surrounded by hostile faces and even the adults in the audience seemed to snicker at his disorientation. He suddenly felt so small and vulnerable in the midst of a laughing pack. The walk to the podium seemed endless, his feet felt like immovable blocks of cement, and his heart did not beat. It fluttered spasmodically in his throat.

Now as Reid was pulled along behind Cyrus he experienced a similar feeling. Once again he felt surrounded by hostility with an unknown goal in sight. Only this time fear was not the only thing that made his heart flutter and his breath stutter. Cyrus pressed the button for the elevator – the resounding 'ding' and scraping of metal against metal as the elevator descended made Reid cringe - and the three men stepped inside. The small space was suffocating to him but still Reid forced himself to think. What was he going to do? He realized it would have to be unexpected to not only Percival's thugs but to himself as well. That way he wouldn't have time to hesitate and thus slow himself down. He felt Cyrus staring at him as if he were accessing his every thought.

"I need to tie my shoe," Reid said to the red flashing light that signified the end of their descent. Cyrus continued to bite his nails, his eyes on Reid's flushed face. The elevator made the irritating noise again and Reid slowly bent down, his hands stretched towards his loose shoelaces. He felt Cyrus's grip on his arm lessen. The doors slid open, he took a breath in…and ran.

He heard both Cyrus and the other henchman grunt in surprise as they collided with the wall, still reeling over the fact that Reid had shoved them. Reid spit out the blood that he had drawn from Cyrus's hand when the older man had tried to restrain him and ran blindly down the hall. He wanted to call for help but his throat had swollen and the most that he could do was wheeze loudly as he crashed into walls and doorways in his desperate attempt to get away. There was a fancy stairwell before him that wound its way all the way from the top of the hotel to the reception area where the sounds of a party could be heard. Reid would have given up – he simply could not fathom pushing himself any further – had not he heard Cyrus curse and shout, 'Don't let him downstairs.'

Like a glimmer of light in the pressing darkness, Reid suddenly understood that if they didn't want him downstairs there must have been something on that floor that would stop them. So, with his remaining strength, Reid threw himself down the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

"...perceptions are really nothing more than a habitual tendency, Terence. I look at you and I think to myself, 'you're a rather nice looking woman. All curvy and baby-faced.' But then I realize that such a reaction is merely a part of a classification system that society has taught me to use when I look at women. Do you understand?"

"I…I think so. I think I do."

"So you understand that I don't really think that you're a nice looking woman."

"Um, thank you?"

Morgan didn't know if he could stand another minute in Percival's presence. He had heard the man's twisted rants on Buddhist philosophy and would have found it interesting had the man not insisted on using them to justify his cruel ways. 'Since, according to certain philosophies, nothing actually exists then you shouldn't have a problem with me un-existing your child's life. Thirteen years and it's like they were never even there!" He had once said to a sobbing mother. Months later Percival still couldn't understand why Morgan grew cold in his presence. Jordan, on the other hand….

Morgan watched her watching him with her arm looped carelessly around Percival's waist. In one hand she held a glass of Chardonnay which she barely sipped at, a sign that she wanted to be fully sober for the rest of the night. It was a little signal that they had come up with a few nights after their first rendezvous.

"Terry!" Percival had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the band. As usual, it took Morgan a second to remember that he was supposed to respond when the name Terry was called. He turned away from Jordan and glared at Percival. He sometimes wondered if Percival was privy to his girlfriend's infidelity. She certainly was privy to his. "The company hasn't seen you in a while. We miss you in the land of Counting and Chaos."

"Funny," Morgan said. "I haven't missed you."

Terrence smacked her palm against her face.

Of course, Percival wouldn't be caught dead letting someone read his emotions on his face. He simply smiled at Morgan with his surgically modified teeth as if they were best friends. As if best friends were constantly in the mood to go after each other's throats.

"I miss you, Terry." Percival lamented a bit too dramatically for Morgan's comfort. "You float in and out of my life – it's like I don't even know you. What say we have a little date tonight?"

"I'll be busy," Morgan said. Jordan snickered.

Morgan was sure Percival would have pounced at his throat had not there been a sudden commotion on the staircase. Everybody looked up in confusion as a young man crashed into the adjacent wall and fell onto the floor. Even the members of the band dropped their instruments and looked hesitantly at Percival. He really didn't enjoy having people crash his parties and so, with the thought of having the stranger reprimanded later, he raised his hand and smiled gracefully.

"Someone had a bit too much to drink!" Percival said in a smooth voice. The man on the staircase threw a hand on the rail and attempted to stand up. Terrence noticed Morgan's eyes suddenly become riveted on the face. "Go on, boys. Keep playing!" Percival waved at the stage and immediately the music started up again. He turned back towards the staircase and squinted his eyes. "Now I wonder who that is…" he muttered. Reid stood up and bent over the staircase, his chest heaving in pain as he scanned the crowd. Finally his eyes found the small group of four and he stared between Percival and Morgan upturned faces with wide eyes.

"Cowboy!" Percival said in delight just as Morgan cried out, "Reid!" The two thugs finally caught up to Reid and wrenched his arms behind his back but not before Morgan saw the distrust that flared in his eyes when he looked at him. Before anyone could stop him Morgan had slithered through the satin-clad crowd and shoved the two men away.

"Easy my man, easy." He said with one arm around Reid's shoulders and the other held protectively in front of him. Cyrus snarled and took a step back.

"That's Percival's property right there and we were specifically told to guard it."

"Plans have changed," Morgan growled as he helped Reid to his feet, "Now back off. You don't want to make me angry."

This was true. Neither Cyrus nor his partner wanted to get involved with a man whose eyes could grow so black and hateful. They took a step back, glanced once at each other, and then turned on their silver heels and walked away.

Reid closed his eyes and pushed Morgan away. "I'm okay," he said in a rough voice. Morgan steadied him as he tried to walk away, his steps scattered and clumsy. Reid shrugged Morgan's hand off of his shoulders but Morgan simply walked around him and put his hands on his chest.

"No, you're not. What happened to you?"

"Pecans."

"Pecans?!"

"Yes, pecans."

"What'd you do, take their money?"

"Very funny," Reid winced and dry heaved. "I need to get out of here. But I'm going to do it on my own, excuse me." Reid tried to push past Morgan but he barred his way with an upturned palm.

"Look, if you can walk three steps without stumbling I will let you go and never bother you again. If you can't then I'm going to help you in every way that I can whether you like it or not. Now come on, pretty boy. Show me if you can walk."

Reid was getting tired of the man. He was sick, weak, and ready to fly back home but instead he was on the staircase of a hotel full of horror, playing drunk for a man with a too-white smile. He gave Morgan an angry look, took two steps, and promptly fainted.

With a laugh Morgan picked Reid up and carried him to his car, unaware of the fact that Percival was watching him the whole time.

XxXxXxXx

"That's the point, Terry! Percival saw you helping an FBI agent – not only helping him but getting all…I don't know. Touchy. And looking at him funny as if you guys were, I don't know, close or something. And now Percival's super suspicious!"

"Hey, hey. He's awake. How are feeling, Reid?"

The first thing that Reid saw when he came to was a young woman leaning over him with a bag of pills in her hand. She couldn't have been more than eighteen and yet the look of pure loathing that she wore on her face as she looked at him made her look so much older. He tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position but she held him in place.

"Uh-uh-uh," she said, "Stay on your side in case you vomit. I hope you do."

"You know what, Terence? I think it's time you left."

Reid looked up at Morgan who sat perched on the edge of the couch where he lay. Terrence stood up (Reid suddenly noticed the rings that lined her cuffs) and, with one last look of disgust aimed at him, left the room.

Morgan sighed and went to close the door after her. Reid sat up and put a hand to his chest which was bandaged and aching terribly. "Where am I?" he asked, looking around the resplendent room. Above him was a glass dome that poured forth a golden sunlight onto the multi-leveled room. Though lavish with fine and ornate things Reid couldn't help but notice the lack of a personal touch. There were no pictures of family or friends and the only colors in the room were white and gold which gave the setting a rather drab touch.

"Where am I?" He whispered. It still hurt to breathe.

"Chez Morgan, my humble abode. Welcome. Whoa, easy! " Morgan said suddenly when Reid bolted up and stumbled to the door. He threw it open and looked around outside. A dirt road leading past two fancy cars and through a wall of thick, leafy trees was all that greeted him. He turned around and eyed Morgan with distrust. He had seen him standing with Percival and for that he knew that he could never trust his handsome grin again.

"Who are you?" He asked in a low voice. Morgan stared at him for a moment in surprise before slipping his hands in his pockets and ducking his head but not before Reid saw the anger that flashed in his eyes.

"A man that everybody wants to know for all the wrong reasons," Morgan left the room and came back with a large, rectangular object in his hands. "I saved you from a pack of wolves more dangerous than you can imagine. I'm guessing from the way that they handled you back there that those men are upset with you and, trust me, you do not want to be the target of their rage. Besides I risked my ass back there protecting you. But I can understand if you still don't trust me,  _really_." Morgan dropped the object at Reid's feet with a jarring thump. It was a phonebook. "221 Heathrow Lane. The numbers for a taxi are somewhere around page 402. You have a phone, right?"

"No." Cyrus and the other man had taken on one of his attempts to leave the room. Morgan dug around his pocket and pulled out his own cell phone and a few slips of cash.

"Don't go scrolling through the pictures," he said with a smile as he handed it to him. He then put his hands back in his pocket and turned his back on Reid. "And don't go back to the hotel – you know that. If you need medical attention go to St. Jude's medical clinic. It just opened and I doubt they'll be watching it. I'd also suggest you stay with someone that you trust for a few days until you feel safe enough to leave, although keep in mind that they may become a target of the Company, too."

With that Morgan strolled away. Reid watched him walk into a large office-like space beneath one of the staircases until he turned the corner and was out of site. A song started playing from an unseen radio and Reid could hear Morgan begin to hum quietly to himself. There was something oddly soothing about the sound.

"You could always stay here for a while," he called out at one point.

Reid picked up the phone book and dialed the number, all the while attempting to map out a course of action. He was getting tired of planning. He was getting tired of feeling like every corner that he turned hid a corrupt criminal with a loaded gun and a threat-bearing tongue. He was getting tired and he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until the web of corruption behind it all was exposed to him. But in order to expose it he had to be sure that he was safe from it first.

"Hello. Speedy Dean's taxi service. How may I help you?"

"I need someone to pick me up at 221 Heathrow Lane."

"Alright. And where do you need to be dropped off?"

"I don't know. I'll have figured it out by the time you get here."

Reid pressed the little red button and dropped his hand to his side. The wait for the taxi would be around twenty to twenty five minutes. He walked over to the couch and settled down on the cushions, weighing his options. He wanted to trust Morgan – he did trust Morgan. There was something about the familiar way in which they spoke to each other that made Reid feel that theirs could be one of the few relationships in his life unburdened by awkwardness or feigned sympathy. Yet his logic – bold and relentless as usual – coldly reminded him of the fact that he had seen Morgan casually conversing with Percival.  _Aka_ , he reminded himself with some bitterness,  _the man who tried to bite your lips off over a plate of scrambled eggs_. Like Spock, Reid was a sucker for logic.

And yet when the taxi finally arrived Reid found himself at the door of Morgan's office, his mind a sudden captive of something unspeakable when Morgan looked up at him with curious brown eyes. Reid swallowed, suddenly aware of the patch of skin visible beneath his unbuttoned shirt.

"Thank you," was all that he said. Morgan gave a nod of his head and turned the radio down.

"Any time."

Reid looked around the office as Morgan watched him patiently. It's not that he didn't know what to say, he just wasn't sure that he wanted to leave yet. Although he was still suspicious of the man he was more than appreciative of all that Morgan had done for him. To add to the feeling of not wanting to part, Reid could still remember the time that they had spent together on the bridge. He wasn't of the sentimental sort but still that rainy evening stood out in his mind in the most comforting way. He pursed his lips, something that Morgan was quick to notice.

"What are you reading?" Reid asked, nodding at the newspaper in Morgan's hands. Morgan flipped it over and let him read the headline. Reid leaned in closer and squinted at the tiny writing, mouthing the words to himself as he did so. Morgan snickered.

"It's just a newspaper, my friend. You don't have to devour it."

"It's how I read," Reid said dismissively. Morgan was about to laugh and say no kidding but decided against it. "Eric Thompson….he was the manager of the bar where Ethan worked….it says that he was strangled to death." Reid suddenly noticed the name scribbled in red ink in the margins. "Who's Kevin Hartley?" Morgan suddenly closed the newspaper and placed it in an open cabinet.

"A story that was never finished." He said after a sigh. Reid would have found his words odd had not his mind been somewhere else completely at the time. He heard the taxi driver honk his horn impatiently.

"Listen –" He said quickly. Morgan held up his hand to silence him.

"You want to stay. I already told you that you're more than welcome."

"Thank you." Reid said in relief. "I only need a few days at most and then I'll be out of here. And…"  _I think I trust you. If I'm going to get out of this alive I can't solely rely on my instincts and wits. I need someone who knows the city, the good and the bad of it, and the people in it. You strike me as an honest man with secrets. And who doesn't have secrets?_  But instead he said, "If I'm going stay here I need you to answer one question. That woman – Terrence, I think - called you Terry. But you told me your name is Derek Morgan. Who are you?"

Morgan smiled and picked up a glass of brandy that had been sitting nearby. He held it up to Reid who shook his head. "You know, it's on and off with me. Brandy is the poison that I started taking in order to seem more like the privileged men and women whose anonymity offered me security and protection. But I actually drank quite a lot of Kombucha when I was young, it came before the Brandy. Up until I met you I had forgotten all about the basics of an honest, non-intoxicating drink but still…I've gotten so used to drinking Brandy that I've forgotten what the other one tastes like."

"That doesn't answer my question," Reid said. Morgan smiled at him.

"It does answer your question. You're not thinking hard enough about it. A genius like you, don't you like riddles?"

"So long as they don't have to do with Kombucha and Brandy," Though still slightly irked, Reid was quick to suppress the laughter that threatened the burst forth. Morgan, however, gave a muffled laugh and shook his head.

"Your taxi's still waiting," he said, lifting the hand holding the glass of brandy to point at the front door. "I would hate to be in that man's position."

"Hm?" Reid looked in the direction that he was pointing. "Oh, right. I should probably take care of that."

Reid turned to leave but Morgan called him back with a sharp voice. It was then as he stared at Morgan did he realize just how handsome he was with his fine eyebrows, perfect lips, and mercilessly perceptive eyes. Handsome, that is, until he said his next words.

"If I wanted you dead you'd already be ten years in your grave."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: rough sex and mention of rape and abuse ahead.

Once, long ago, he had loved Jordan Todd. Sometime during the beginning of it all, smothered between wary introductions and cigarette parties, his eyes had been drawn to hers and in that moment he had sworn to himself that he was going to marry the woman. There was simply no way for him to live if he couldn’t live with her commanding strength and her beautifully cutting wit. But it soon became apparent that there was nothing that could be done. She was married to Percival and while neither of them were pure, shining beacons of fidelity they completed each other. Like ying and yang one was unfulfilled and thus irrevocably unhinged without the other. Even if her relationship with Percival were to end he could never love her without feeling the coldness of Percival’s grasp in her palm or the sound of his laughter ringing in her own.

                So when he played the part of the promiscuous yet passionless pawn in Percival’s canopy bed he allowed himself to bask in his resentful restlessness. He let it guide his hands over her breasts and spread her legs with one knee. She didn’t mind, he knew. She was simply impressed and especially impressive and, if anything, this is what fed his energy that night. Even so his mind began to wander…

                _…he had killed a man only a few hours earlier. Yes, he remembered every detail._

_Jim Spurrier had been hanging upside down from the ceiling for over three days. The thick rope had begun to dig into his puffy ankles, turning the skin an ugly shade of purple. His hands, however, had turned blue. The color didn’t compliment his fine, manicured nails neither did the sound that they made as they scraped back and forth across the dusty cement floor. He used to be a relatively handsome man but in just a few days his body had become an indecisive circulation of blue, purple, red, and waxy white that would make even impressionists shudder._

                She exhaled sharply and grabbed his hands, guiding them exactly where she wanted them. Who was he to not comply?

                _Spurrier tried to lick his dry lips but his tongue was limp - about as committed as a dead fish- and his lips felt as if they had been replaced with tubes of meat._

_“Bluhb, huff…Terwry…”_

_Morgan watched him with a carefully guarded face. A display of sympathy for the man was not his concern for he had none but he had to carefully arrange his face so that the pure disgust that he felt for him wouldn’t show through. He remained sitting in the small, fold out chair, his eyes riveted on the white trail of dried spit that had snaked past the man’s eyelid. Spurrier sputtered awkwardly for a bit before he finally gained control of his mouth again._

_“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, “I’m sorry.”_

_“Bit too late for that, don’t you think?” Morgan stood up and took his time walking towards Spurrier, his eyes roaming over every inch of the man’s desperate form. He had all of the time in the world. He stood just close enough and squatted down until he was nose-to-nose with the man.  Sharp brown eyes pierced green ones hidden beneath heavy lids. “How does it_ feel, _” he whispered. When the man didn’t answer soon enough Morgan grabbed his collar and squeezed it so that the edges of the sharp fabric disappeared between the folds on the man’s neck. “_ How _does it_ feel _?”_

_“It feels bad!” Spurrier screamed as glistening streams of fear began to roll over his eyebrows. “It feels really…really bad! I just want to go home.”_

_“Home,_ ” Morgan snickered and shook his head. He couldn’t control the sarcasm that slipped into his voice. _“That’s the place where you’re supposed to feel comfortable, right? Maybe a little fireplace, flat screen TV? A dog in the yard and food in the kitchen? That’s home, right?”_

_“Mm-hm?” The man sucked his lips in and tried his best to nod. “It’s where you go to at the end of the day,” he added weakly._

_“That’s right. Now we’re getting somewhere. What you feel right-”_

A sudden twinge of pleasure jolted him out of his thoughts and forced him to hunch over Jordan’s body with a hiss. For a moment their fingers intertwined when he leaned forward and held her hands above her head but the touch was too implicit, too dangerous and they both let go. Freed but curious he let his palms run over the silky paths of wrists, her forearms, and the sides of her body before shifting their legs and maneuvering her onto her stomach.

“Can’t bear to look me in the face?” Half-buried in a pillow and surrounded by a wild mane of hair her taunt had lost its usual fire. Morgan held her wrists together and kissed her back with grinning lips.

“Have you seen the view back here?”

 He made a move to enter her but with a scoff she snatched her wrists from his hand and pushed herself up. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.” For a moment the two simply stared at each other, she with her challenging eyes and spread legs and he with his patient eyes. Still watching her he wrapped his arms around the bottom of her thighs and began to kiss her. She leaned back on her hands and let her head fall back with a gentle sigh, enjoying the feel of his tongue until the sensations that welled up became only just bearable. Deft fingers found his chin and forced him to look up and into her playful eyes.

“Get on your back, cowboy.”

_“-now, the hopelessness, the fear, the vulnerability….imagine having that invade your home. The one place where you’re supposed to feel safe and loved becomes a prison. You have to tiptoe down the hall because you know that there’s some heartless creature around the corner that wants to sink its teeth into you and tear you apart.” Morgan was silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts as Spurrier sputtered uselessly. “And then that feeling washes over you. You’ve been hurt so bad that you barely have strength to walk. You trust no one, not even the person in the mirror, and eventually you’re forced to submit to the unjust punishment without any hope for a reprieve. Is that how you feel right now?” Spurrier nodded. Morgan had described his current predicament perfectly. Morgan nodded as a rather naughty sense of satisfaction began to well up in his heart. “Good…” he whispered, “Because that’s how you made all twenty three of those children feel when they entered your home.”_

_Spurrier shook his head violently and then fell limp, no doubt disoriented by his impulsive action. What came out of his mouth next was a thoughtless mistake that sealed his fate. “What children?”_

_Morgan reared up –_

Morgan thrust his hips upwards and Jordan gasped. Still, the beautifully coordinated woman kept her balance.

_\- and pulled a well-used blade from his inner jacket pocket. The fact that he had used it extensively during his career had not dulled its efficiency in the least. Even the smallest action could cause the nastiest cut from its precise edges. Spurrier saw it and began to convulse violently._

_“Twenty three children,” Morgan shouted, unable to control himself anymore. He planted his foot firmly against Spurrier’s stomach and gave him a push that sent him swinging back and forth, always getting closer to the blade. “They came to you looking for a home and instead you…gave…them…hell,” each word was emphasized with a kick to the face or a shove by strong hands. Spurrier whimpered and cried but Morgan paid no heed. “You raped them and beat them until they were barely recognizable by their own friends and family. You son of a bitch,” he wiped the spit from his bottom lip, “What were their names?”_

_“I don’t know, I don’t know!”_

_“Right. Okay, so…you run your filthy hands all over them and you don’t even bother to remember their names.” Morgan jabbed the blade into his upper thigh –_

-Jordan’s hips moved against his, faster now. He was powerless against her relentless attention and so, without so much as an appreciative kiss, he lay back and let her guide him whichever way she liked. He was so close.

_\- and withdrew it just as quickly. A comical fountain of blood began to quirt out of Spurrier’s thigh as he screamed for mercy. “Michele Baker,” Morgan hissed through gritted teeth spotted with the other man’s blood. He slid the blade along the man’s wrists. “Torrey Baker.” Another stab. He could barely see Spurrier’s face._

“That’s it,” Jordan breathed when she felt his muscles tense beneath her.

_“Timothy Chang. Rebecca Hopkins. Samuel McDermott. Samuel Chevalier-” He was shouting now, punctuating every name with an infliction of pain. The names of the children would be heard, he promised himself, and they would be the last thing that the scum ever heard. There was blood everywhere, his hands were a mess, Spurrier was choking on his own blood and…_

_...Reid’s face, so close to his…_

_“-no, you’re not. What happened to you?”_

_“Pecans.”_

_“Pecans?!”_

_“Yes, pecans.”_

_“What’d you do, take their money?”_

_“Very funny,” the man with the dark eyes winced “I need to get out of here. But I’m going to do it on my own, excuse me.”_

_“Would you rather have me kiss you?”_

_“What? Yes – I mean no!  Actually, what I’m saying i-” Morgan leaned down and was about to kiss the corner of his lips but daringness took hold and he pressed his hands against either side of Reid’s neck, moving in closer to his naked body which curved so nicely into his own._

_“Tell me your name,” he whispered against the young man’s cheek. Reid closed his eyes with a silent sigh and placed his hands over Morgan’s. They were surprisingly strong._

_“But Morgan, you already know my name. It’s-”_

“-Spencer Reid?!” Morgan suddenly came down from his thoughts to find Jordan glaring at him in horror. She quickly wiped her face with Percival’s sheets and reared back. “Isn’t that the name of the FBI agent?”

Morgan didn’t answer. He looked around somewhat dizzily and tried to calm his racing heart. There was only one thought racing around his head at the moment and it both confused and, oddly enough, delighted him.

 He had had an orgasm to the thought of the that pale faced young man, all whilst having sex with the most beautiful woman that he had ever laid eyes on. The absurdness of the situation made him burst out laughing.

“You are one fantastic woman,” he said with a small chuckle, wiping tears of mirth from his weary eyes. The look that Jordan gave him was more than confused – it was as if a three-headed alien had suddenly wormed its way out of the man that she had just slept with.

“Terry!” She shouted.

“Hey, hey. No need to shout. I’m right here.”

She sucked her teeth in disgust and stood up, deliberately wrapping the sheet around her body.  “I can’t believe you.”

Upon suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation Morgan stood up and wrapped his arms around her from behind faster than she could call him something that he didn’t want to hear. “Relax, baby,” he muttered into her ear. He could feel the hot impatience radiating from her body. He kissed her neck and bit her ear playfully. “I have never met a woman more delightful than you, I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Flattery will make you lose whatever balls you got left, Terry.”

“Oh, I’m not flattering you,” he spun her around and flashed her his signature grin, “I’m simply stating the facts. Tonight I just had something on my mind. You know, when you send me to that sweet, sweet place it’s the only time that my mind isn’t overcrowded with a bunch of stuff and I can’t help but think that I should be using that rare space for urgent things, like planning on how to get rid of that FBI agent.”

“Oh, really?” Jordan said, torn between feeling suspicious, pleased, and curious.

“I’m too disoriented to lie.”

Jordan made a small noise of amusement in her throat and allowed him to kiss her. This time it was his hands that slowly unwound the sheet from her body and found their way to her lower back, pushing her closer with an unapologetic craving.

“Give me a minute, mamma, and I’ll make it up to you.”

“Make it a second and I’ll be glad to let you do it. And you’re not going to think about the FBI agent again.”

“I promise,” said the grinning liar.

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Two Days Later…

Terrence didn’t trust the lanky FBI agent, not for one second. Even now as she watched him hop around the carpet in Morgan’s old robe she couldn’t help but think that this was a young man who could cause some serious damage. But he was pretty cute, she had to admit.

Reid swung his arm and the little animated tennis ball went spinning across the screen.

“Come on, Reid. Is that all you got?”

“I think my controller is broken…”

“We just switched!”

“Yeah, well I don’t think these controllers were made for someone with my wrist to palm ratio. You know, there’s actually a lawsuit against-”

“ _HA!_ Morgan: _one-oh_ , Reid: _zer-oh_!”

“Mother of-”

“Watch it,” Morgan waved the controller at him threateningly, “Don’t make me file a lawsuit against that mouth.”

Yes, the young agent was cute but she couldn’t let that distract her from what she had to do. _My first important mission_ , she thought to herself with some pride but then decided that the word ‘mission’ was too childish. _My first assignment_ , that was better, _straight from Percival_. Four days after the fact she still hadn’t forgotten the honor and importance that she had felt when Percival drove her and Jordan to a jazz bar in his Cadillac. It was there beneath the watchful and simmering eyes of the bar’s young manager that Percival had said to her ‘keep an eye on the budding, lil’ relationship between Terry and the agent, know what I’m sayin’? You are close to Terry after all.” Of course she was. It wasn’t Percival but Morgan who had found her freezing to death and covered in another girl’s blood so many months ago. It was he who had offered her a room and access to whatever she needed in his spectacular house, all of it without expectation for anything more. He had simply handed her a key, put a blanket around her shoulders and said, “the shower in the downstairs bedroom is all yours.” He was quiet back then and quite still but after a while they had developed an odd sort of friendship. At times he was a self-proclaiming wise older brother, a relentlessly sassy friend, or simply a roommate who complained about her habits. Sometimes (and these were the times that she loved the most) he was content with being the father who listened as she sobbed about the one that she was glad to be rid of.

Of course, Terrence had her hesitations about exposing Morgan’s personal life to Percival. Personal was the word for, in the few days that they had gotten to know each other, Reid and Morgan had become close friends, so close, in fact, that they seemed to have completely forgotten about the outside world. Neither man had been outside save for Morgan when he left on an ‘errand’ two days ago. Terrence had watched as they explored each other’s company through irritable but ultimately harmless quips, addicting midnight stories to the sound of classic rock, and boyish tomfoolery. As Morgan’s smile grew wider by day the various piles of Chinese food cartons grew taller and taller.

That, then, would have had to been her report to Percival. Deep down inside she hated the whole situation and she knew Percival would share her sympathies.

“Morgan, while I was here you must have cursed about a gazillion times.”

“I cursed _once_ , okay? _Once_ when I banged my foot on the coffee table.”

“That’s a lie, you always curse. And besides that one time counted for about twenty since you pretty much damned the entirety of humanity.”

“So?”

“So you put sailors to shame,” Reid shrugged, his eyes wide and competitive.

“Bullshit. What about you?” The warmth and careless loving in Morgan’s eyes when he turned them on her made Terrence flinch, “You up for a game or two?”

“No,” she muttered into her coffee mug. She saw Reid wipe the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. Morgan laughed and put his hands on his hips.

“I have never heard you say no to a game of Wii tennis before.”

 _Well, there’s a first time for everything_ , she wanted to say but her burning guilt rendered her awkward and silent. She simply cleared her throat, pulled her legs closer to her chest, and shook her head violently. Morgan gave her a curious look before turning away from her and stretching his muscles. There was a faint ringing in her ears that distorted the sound of his voice when he told Reid that the game was going to start again in thirty seconds. She couldn’t take the pressure anymore. She stood up and made a move to run into the bathroom but tripped midway and spilled coffee all over her backpack and Reid’s satchel. Suddenly Reid was at her side, his slender hand thrust beneath her nose.

“Are you okay” He asked worriedly.

“I’m fine,” she spat, “I’m just-”

Reid’s satchel was directly below her chin, splotched with quickly blooming spots. She knew what it contained: a peculiar folder filled with many sheets of paper. Reid hardly ever let his satchel out of his site and the only time when the folder wasn’t tucked deep within its bettered recesses it was in his hands. When he wasn’t with Morgan’s he studied those papers like his very life depended on it.

She knew what she had to do. If she could just find out what was on those pages she could report back to Percival without feeling as if she had betrayed Morgan.

Terrence tried her best to give Reid an appreciative smile. Before he could protest she gathered up her purse and his satchel in her arms and picked them up. “Sorry, um…I’m just gonna place these on the dining room table so that I can, um, wipe up the spill on the carpet.”

“Okay, just-” The handsome profiler was immediately on guard and she began to panic. He reached his hand out as if he were going to stop her and no doubt he would have had Morgan’s next words not distracted him.

“Time’s up! The game has started!”

“What, no!” Reid’s snapped his gaze towards Morgan as he started the game again, his character swinging winning shots at Reid’s unguarded side. “You can’t cheat like that!” Reid hopped over the couch and grabbed his controller with a flustered look on his face. He glanced at Terrence with his tongue clamped indecisively between his lips but she made sure to make a big show of placing the bag on the dining room table only a few feet away. His eyes slid back towards the screen and she knew she only had seconds to do what she need to do.

She turned her back towards them and, heart racing, undid the right straps. If either man asked she was simply retrieving one of her rings which had slipped into the bag. Inside was a crumpled stash of newspapers, a single yellow-pad notebook, and the stuffed folder. The newspapers would be of no use to her and the disappearance of the notebook or the folder would be noticed immediately. So what could she do?

“Oh-ho, looks like Spencer Reid’s catching up!”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Reid, you still have twelve points to go.”

Shaking hands were her enemy as she plunged them into the folder and withdrew a few slips of paper. That wasn’t enough but it was a start. It would have to do until she could devise another plan. She quickly stuffed the three sheaves under her shirt and re-adjusted the straps of the bag. She comforted herself in the fact that he wouldn’t notice a few missing papers but this was a gross estimation on her part.

“Coffee makes one helluva stain,” she called out in what she hoped was a cheerful voice. Morgan wasn’t fooled for a minute. He looked away from the game just long enough to give her a look that said ‘let’s talk’ before refocusing his attention. Terrence cleared her throat again and zipped up her leather jacket, careful not to wrinkle the paper against her belly. “I’m going to head out.”

Neither man heard her. She allowed the muffled tap of her toes to match the pace of her furious heart and hightailed it to the door. By the time Reid glanced back she was out the door and on her bike, on her way to her place in the forest at the edge of the city.

 


	9. Chapter 9

As Reid pursued the ever expanding history of modern day crime with the expert and ever-so-curious Penelope Garcia he began to unravel the mystery of the Company. Of course, the purpose of the Company wasn't explicitly stated on any website. Trails had been obliterated and speculations had risen only to be washed away with the smallest amount of residue snaking its way about the internet. But he did have the report forwarded to him by Hotch and with it he was able to form certain theoretical connections that unbeknownst to him weren't too far from the truth.

Here's what he knew so far: the Company had been active since the 1920s. He couldn't pinpoint the exact starting date but he guessed that a smaller version had been active before that. There was a rather peculiar trend that he and Garcia had picked up after hours' worth of digging. Whenever there was a significant drop in the amount of scandals or abuse of upper-political order in a country the documented crime rate would drop. In calling uncomfortable police chiefs and having a worried Garcia unlock documents that were meant to be forgotten Reid found that the crime rate itself didn't drop but the procedure used to document and hunt down the criminals was purposefully botched and sometimes completely ignored. This trend only happened in spurts before bouncing to a new country and eventually finding its way back.

"The Company is made up of a bunch of violent criminals that gain leverage from politicians by disposing of anything or anybody that the politicians may see as an obstacle. Add to that a few side jobs and the whole thing is just…fodder for the best conspiracy novel." Garcia said quietly. Reid stared at her skype screen with tired eyes as she began to twist at one of her pink sparkly toys excitedly.

"It's genius. If the politician has a dangerous affair that's threatening his campaign he can have someone from the Company obliterate the other person involved. In exchange the person from the Company can commit a crime to his or her liking and the politician can easily pull strings to get it cleaned up."

"But the politician can never expose them because the Company already has dirt on him or her."

"It's incredible," Reid said quietly as his eyes roamed over the map of connections that he had discovered. The map had little red lines that had taken up twenty pages of paper with over one hundred names.

"It's icky. Reid you gotta tell Hotch… this….this is some deep doggy doo-doo. And I don't mean the kind at the park, I mean the kind that you step in on the way to your interview because some jerk decided not to-" Reid shook his head. He hadn't told Garcia about his run in with the Company. He knew that she would alert the team and, though he knew that it was foolish, he felt that it was his job to dig just a little deeper into the affair before he brought the others in. Over a hundred men, women, and children had been murdered at the hands of the Company. Their blank faces would haunt him if he didn't submit himself to the case one hundred percent first.

"Not yet, Garcia," he said simply. She watched his face with sympathy. His eyes were ringed with circles darker than she had ever seen and he could barely keep his chin from drooping to his chest. If she could she would have reached through the screen and smoothed his tousled hair but, as much as she loved her technology, it was infuriatingly primitive in the fact that it did not allow her to adequately comfort friends in New Orleans. But right as she was about to make some ridiculous reference Reid's head snapped out of his hands and simultaneously a miracle happened.

A chocolate god of thunder with enough beauty and muscle to make a thousand souls scream in ecstasy stepped up behind the couch where Reid was sitting and settled a pair of strikingly deep and endearingly curious eyes on her. Well, not on her exactly but the screen where she was rapidly turning a dark shade of pink. She couldn't have known that, if things had turned out differently and the man had turned his mind to fighting crime instead of participating in it they would have developed a sweet and playful relationship that would have lasted throughout the years.

"Gotta go, Garcia. Bye!" Before she could get her adequate fill of the smooth patch of hairless chest visible beneath the man's unbuttoned collar Reid closed his screen and cut her off from the most beautiful thing that she had ever seen.

"Who's baby girl?" Morgan asked, tilting his chin. Reid noticed the slight slur to his speech and the way that he swayed indecisively on the balls on his feet. It didn't take a genius like him to guess that it had something to do with the drink in his hand.

"Friend of mine out in Quantico," Reid said as he gathered his papers together. It was only then that he noticed how big of a mess he had made in the pale yellowish light of Morgan's living room.

"Bit of a sassy lookin' woman," Morgan said with a note of appreciation. Reid laughed.

"You have no idea,"

He watched Morgan sway into his office beneath the stairs. After a minute he stood up and followed him to the door where he watched him stretch his arms with a fatigued sigh. "Why are you up so late?" Reid asked. Morgan shot him a look that barely masked his disturbed nature.

"I just can't sleep, that's all." The gruffness in his voice didn't faze Reid. Morgan pushed past him and was about to walk into the kitchen when Reid's next words stopped him dead in his tracks.

"You have them, too?"

"What?"

"Nightmares."

Morgan turned around and stared hard at the young man. With his hands held limp in his pockets and the almost sinisterly dark eyes that held his gaze unflinchingly, Reid looked as if he could have been a killer himself. Never before had Morgan been looked at with such fearlessness. It was as if the young man had looked into the face of pure evil time and time again and yet his gaze wasn't threatening. It was simply curious, if a bit guarded, and it was only the shadows cast by the lonely lamplight that gave it that devilish look. Or was it? Morgan wondered…

"What would you know about nightmares?" Morgan challenged him. Reid still hadn't blinked.

"More than I need to know…" much to Morgan's disappointment Reid shifted his eyes to the clock on the wall and rocked back on his heels, "I had a mentor. His name was Jason Gideon. I used to be ashamed of telling people that I had them because, honestly, I didn't want people to treat me any differently because of them. But then they became unbearable and repetitive. The same thing over and over again. They made me feel like I had to do something and if I didn't they would continue to haunt me. I told Gideon about them and, I know it sounds cliché but," Reid swallowed, "I felt better. I mean, they never stopped and the haunting feeling never went away but…I guess what I'm saying is if you need to talk about them, or anything, really," Reid looked over at him again and shrugged his shoulders, "I'll be here for a while, me _and_ my nightmares."

Immediately Reid began to regret what he had said. He had only ever shared such intimate aspects of his life with Gideon and his mother. For the life of him he couldn't understand why he had felt compelled to tell Morgan. The watchful expression on Morgan's face seemed devoid of all human sympathies and the room seemed to echo his words in a loud, uncomfortable way. Then suddenly Morgan turned away and walked into another room. Reid cursed his stupidity. He would have left then and there had not the necessity of his accommodations held him back. He threw himself onto the couch and pressed his palms against his temple. Sleep wasn't a possible reprieve, he knew, so he picked up the phone to call Ethan.

" _L…is for the way you look at me._

_O….is for the only one I see._

_V…is very, very….EXTRAordinary_

_E…is even more than anyone that you adore-_

_And love…is all that I can give…to you…"_

The smooth voice of a classic jazz singer forced him to put the phone down and look up just in time to see Morgan step out of the room with his arms spread wide and a true, pearly white grin to match his mischievous eyes. Reid watched in horror and curiosity as the man stepped swiftly to the beat, his heels and toes tapping impressively coordinated patterns onto the hardwood floor.

"Come on. Pretty boy like you, I know you can dance."

"Morgan, I don't think this is the time –"

"One in the morning when neither of us can sleep? I think now is the perfect time! Come on, let me show you a few things."

Morgan pulled a protesting Reid up by his hands and dragged him into the kitchen where the music was playing. He reached back to turn the volume up just loud enough to be heard all around the property without making the setting uncomfortable. Reid pulled away with an apologetic stutter and began to move towards the door. When Morgan asked him why he simply replied, "I can't dance." All previous joviality melted from Morgan's face and he stepped away from Reid just long enough to turn the radio down.

"Alright, listen. I let you stay at my house no questions ask when you needed it the most and I don't regret that. Now I'd never make you do anything that you don't feel comfortable doing but I would be honored if you let me teach you how to dance."

"Why?" Reid asked. Morgan thought a moment.

"Because you're not going to have nightmares tonight. Not if I can help it, kid."

Reid smiled. He stuffed his hands in his pocket and then, after a moment of contemplation, took them back out and offered them to Morgan. "Show me the way, pardner." Morgan's smiled reappeared.

"That's what I'm talking about. Okay, you give me…this hand and, it's alright, put that one right there, on my hip. Alright, now when he says 'L' you put your foot right there – ouch, no not there-"  
"Sorry,"

"When he says 'O' you…there you go. See, genius? You already got the hang of it!"

Reid thought the complete opposite. He felt like a highly uncoordinated octopus that had been flung out of its realm. Touch had never really been a pleasurable experience for him and even now his hands felt like cold, deadweights in Morgan's own but he promised himself that he would see it out to the end just so that Morgan could have his little fun. And so he stepped when Morgan said step, turned when Morgan said turn, and when Morgan quickly slid his fingers behind his ears and confidently brought their lips together there was nothing more or less that Reid could do. Unaffected by the display of emotion above, his feet continued to stumble and trip to the music as Reid's lips stumbled against Morgan's until suddenly he had to break away.

The two men stood with their arms still crooked haphazardly around each other. All they could do was laugh around unplanned sentences at how ridiculous the whole situation was. When Morgan reached out to Reid again he was met with a surprisingly eager pair of lips pressed against his own with a clumsy anxiety. The idea of love hadn't crossed either man's mind. The idea of stumbling through dim lamplight interlocked in an uncomfortably tight embrace just felt _right_.

But then their playful pecks and klutzy kisses took on a singularly dark edge. For the first time in his life Reid felt as if he had lost complete control of his body. His hands kneaded and spread the fabric of Morgan's white button up shirt. His morality, paranoia, and logic fled in fear as his devilishly traitorous hands even went lower than that and tugged aimlessly at Morgan's black belt. The alcohol on Morgan's tongue made Reid's stomach churn in disgust but he couldn't care less. He just wanted Morgan closer and Morgan, surprised but delighted, was willing to comply with the new sensation. So, without hesitation, he let his hand wander over to Reid's thigh but as soon as he did the young genius jumped and shoved himself away.

"Sorry, I can't…I, I mean it's not that I don't want to but- _holy cow_!" Reid dropped one hand on his hip and ran the other through his hair. Morgan found the look of utter confusion, anger, and exhilaration on the man's flushed face endearing but beautifully wizening, too. In that moment he realized that he wasn't just attracted to the young man: he felt oddly humbled by him, too. Morgan raised his hands in respect and fixed Reid with an uncharacteristically honest gaze. "Hey, hey. It's okay. You did nothing wrong."

"I know that. It's just that I want it but I've only ever done something like this once before." This surprised Morgan and he wanted to hear all about Reid's experience but he realized that it wasn't the right time. Instead he took Reid's hand and kissed the man's cold fingers before covering them with his other hand.

"You sleep well, pretty boy."

"You, too," Reid said in the same serious tone.

"How can I not after having met someone like you?"

Reid wanted to curse himself for not giving in to his impulse and kissing the man again. He didn't care if it was sloppy and potentially meaningless. He just wanted it. Besides, he thought as he watched Morgan accidentally ram his shin into the coffee table where Reid's papers were still spread out, such an unthinkable possibility for romantic shenanigans may never happen between them again.

Morgan was reading the newspaper spread over Reid's files, his eyes dark with concentration. Reid remembered the headline from that edition 'Metairie Man Put On Display in Warehouse– Scandalous Records Exposed!' There had been only the faintest hint of a connection between the man, Jim Spurrier, and the Company. Reid had pursued the possibility like a bloodhound, even going so far as to manipulate the NOPD into granting him restricted access to the case.

"You heard about that?" Reid asked after a jaw-burning yawn. Morgan's eyes remained riveted on the paper.

"Spurrier…not a lot…" he mumbled, "the guy was stabbed and hung. Wonder why…"

"Right," Reid said slowly. Morgan continued to read the paper, his eyes roaming greedily over the fresh black print until Reid walked over and stuffed it into his bag along with the rest of his papers. "It's really grim stuff, I don't know why I read it." For a second Reid thought that Morgan wasn't going to respond but the man shook himself out of whatever reverie had taken over him and kissed him again.

"See? That right there is nightmare fodder," he gestured at the scowling satchel which had swallowed the newspaper like a hungry beast, "Listen, if you do have any bad dreams tonight…my rooms the first one on the left at the top of the stairs."

He winked, turned on his heels, and climbed slowly up the stairs. Reid noticed that the dark mood had taken over him again for his eyes had begun to brood and a frown had slipped over his wonderfully soft lips.

xXxXxX

Later that night Reid untangled his limbs from the damp sheets and wriggled, with some disappointment, out of Morgan's tired hold. A thought had woken him and, after simmering for a while in doubt, it drove a hook through his stomach and tugged him downstairs. His bare feet sounded so loud against the cold hardwood floor and it wasn't until he sat down on the couch in the dark that he realized that he must have ran his toes into something at least three times. The dimmed light from his laptop spit a blinding light into his retinas and shot spears through his head but still he navigated through file after government file until he found the one on Jim Spurrier's death and the rules for the following media coverage. Suddenly his heart dropped in horror and his hands went limp over the keyboard.

The media hadn't been allowed to report on the specifics of the murder scene. Not even the journalists had known that Spurrier had been hung. Reid thought back to the moment in the hotel where he had seen Morgan talking with Percival and Jordan.

" _Spurrier…not a lot…the guy was stabbed and hung. Wonder why…"_

Morgan had been at the crime scene before the journalists and the response team. Morgan was close to Percival. Morgan used an alter ego. Reid cursed and stood up.

Morgan was a part of the Company.


	10. Chapter 10

So that was that. Reid knew that Morgan was a killer. Part of him, the part of him that loved Morgan and had given itself up to him the night before, did not care about the missing links: the who what, when, where, and why. It was too sickened by the unexpected turn of events for all of that. But the other part of him, the part that was still heavily ingrained in the FBI and morality, did not _want_ to know: it needed to know. It writhed and screamed inside him, it burned and hissed. And so the two parts fought a vicious battle within.

                And Morgan knew about him but that was the part that Reid didn’t know. Morgan’s connections through the business side of the Company were extensive, inexhaustive, even, and for the price of a few favors had found out everything. Who Reid was, what he had done and, most importantly, the fact that he was a part of the FBI. So his late night rendezvous with the newspaper hadn’t just been for fun. There was a possibility that Reid suspected nothing but Morgan couldn’t take that chance. No, he wouldn’t. He knew Reid. That beautiful, beautiful mind would soon spin out sinister connections if it hadn’t already. Although the sudden change of events infuriated him he couldn’t help but find the new side to Reid’s character quite sexy.

#

                They sat across from each other, dozens of sharp, glinting objects between them. Push come to shove, which one would be used for the kill? The blunt butter knife, crusted over with margarine and bread crumbs? Or what about the fork tilting precautious on the edge of Morgan’s coffee cup? Never before could Reid have imagined that he’d be weighing the fatality of cutlery over lunch. Morgan, however, had done it many times.

                They had each spent the morning researching each other: Morgan, in his study beneath the stairs, Reid in the guest room on the second level. As they perused the world of vice and virtue, they both remembered the night before and the almost furious desperation that had grabbed hold of them as soon as they woke. This did not deter either man, though it did cause their hands grow suddenly still at times. When they had emerged hours later in time for lunch a certain tension had fallen over them: a desire mixed with sadness and wary curiosity. What was the other thinking? What did the other know?

                The fork fell away from the cup with a loud clatter and they both jumped. Morgan’s hand instinctively went to his waist and Reid reached for the butter knife. Then, embarrassed by the futility of their actions, they both settled back into their watchful routine.

                “What were you going to do, stab me with the butter knife? Come on, Reid.” Morgan flashed him his brilliantly white smile.

                “Honestly, I thought you were coming after me with your belt.”

                “All because of a little fork,” Morgan shook his head, grinning, his cheek bulging around a mouthful of sandwich. “Although, to be honest, I’m not surprised you were expecting a belt. You, my friend, were unexpectedly kinky last night. You know, speaking of which-”

                Reid cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to the newspaper spread out before him. He wasn’t really reading it, he just needed a barrier to between him and Morgan: something to hide his thoughts. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Morgan stared at him for a moment in surprise then slowly lowered his gaze.

                “Anything you do wanna talk about?”

                “Nope.” _Thwip_ went the whip in Reid’s voice.

                “Hmmm….alright.”

                Morgan stood up and waltzed around the table to Reid’s side. His hands shot out and he hauled the younger man up. Without hesitation he pressed his lips against his. Carefully, gently, he moved his lips against Reid’s own with a barely suppressed passion, his tongue tasting the wetness of Reid’s mouth with a primal sense of passion. Reid responded just as hungrily but all too soon he pulled away.                                     “I’m going to go and visit someone,” he said, avoiding Morgan’s eyes. He tossed his bag over his shoulder (he had packed it with all of his essential items just that morning, a very small number considering most of it had been left in his hotel.) Quickly, so as not to give himself away or allow for hesitation, Reid turned and made for the door but Morgan was faster. He grabbed Reid’s arm with a vice-like grip. The young agent spun around and tried to yank himself free but Morgan was strong, stronger than he had anticipated. Neither man spoke. They simply stared at each other – no – they watched each other. It was then, finally, that Reid saw the killer within. Morgan’s eyes were cold, angry and his face was set with determination. He didn’t want to kill Reid. He wanted to pin him against a wall and keep him there as a pretty, whimpering portrait until he gave in. Both men knew it.

Without a single word Morgan had made his meaning clear. _Don’t do anything stupid, kid._

                He let him go and Reid stumbled out the door and into the front yard where a taxi was idling. “2412 Bourbon street,” he said to the surprised driver, “Step on it.”

#

                Thirty minutes later found Reid at the steps of an old apartment building. To the left of the brick entrance stood a reddish plaque that read _When New Orleans was the Capital of the Spanish Province of Louisiana (1762-1803) This street bore the name Calle D. Borbon_. But Reid had no time for the swirling, Arabesque history of the city’s architecture. He found the door marked number five and knocked. After a moment’s hesitation he pushed the door open. Ethan had said that nobody in this part of New Orleans locked their doors. “Tourist are more interested in Alligator meat than the vegetarian bologna in my fridge,” he had said. Now Reid wandered through the halls, flicking on lights as he went and calling Ethan’s name over the sound of piano jazz that rode the steam wafting from the bathroom.

                “Ethan!”

                “If I were to die today, what would you tell me?”

                “Where are you, man?                 Ethan stepped out from beneath the kitchen alcove where he had stood watching Reid. This was surprising as Reid had expected him to be in the shower where the water was running. For some reason the sound annoyed him and he ran in the bathroom to turn the shower off. When he returned Ethan was still standing in the same spot, his arms crossed over his chest.

                “Ethan, listen. I can’t go back to the hotel and I need a place to stay until I can leave this afternoon.”

                “Where’re you going?”

                “Back home. I booked my flight this morning.” Reid let his bag drop and fell onto Ethan’s old leather couch with a sigh. “Has anyone been asking for me at the bar?”

                “What would you say to me, Spencer? Assuming that you never saw me again after this?”

                “What?” Reid eyed his friend with suspicion. Something was off about him. Reid hadn’t noticed it at first but something was wrong with the whole setting: the dim lights, the running shower, the pitch of Ethan’s word. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise.

                “Would you say that you loved me?”

                “I… _what_? What are you talking about?”

                “We were always so competitive with each other. You wanted to join the bureau and I came rushing along after you. I wanted to leave my broken home and you came rushing after me. I would say that it was a tie, fifty fifty straight through the middle. But, you see, I fell in love first.”

                “Ethan…” Reid said carefully, his eyes moving between his friend’s and the surrounding space. There were too many shadows for comfort. “I’m sorry but I don’t really have time right now. Listen…”

                “You’re stupid, you know. You’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met. Now, I’m not insulting you. I’m making a perceptive observation – something that you just can’t do. You, my friend, are blind. You refuse to see things that are right in front of you. For example, if I were to kiss you right now you’d say that you never saw it hovering in the air before you, although it’s been there all along. So I guess we’ve both failed. I’m so sorry, my friend.”

                A set of strong arms grasped Reid from behind and lifted him from the couch. There were two men on either side of him: men with narrow faces and cigarette breath.

                “We meet again, cowboy.” one said and Reid recognized the voice of the man from the hotel. It was Cyrus, Percival’s right hand man. The other one put a rough hand over Reid’s mouth.

                “Look at me! I’m so sorry! Spencer, really!” Ethan called over the sound of their tussling. A third man had come up behind Ethan and bent him at the waist. The muzzle of a gun was pressed against his head. “They were too strong! They were going to-”

                But what they were going to do to Ethan, Reid never found out for at that moment a red-hot pain pierced his neck and he gasped. He didn’t know that he had been pricked until he felt the length of the white-hot needle leave his neck. _Stay awake, stay awake_ , he told himself but the room was spinning beneath his feet and his vision had become blurred, the colors of the room fluid. He was going to vomit or explode but before he his body could do either he had fallen against Cyrus, limp and dead to the world.

 

               

 

 

               


	11. Chapter 11

_What to do, what do to do_? And then _stupid, stupid, stupid_. These thoughts followed Morgan as he paced back and forth in his living room. The former thought was mechanical, empty: the thought that made sense but did not have any weight. But the latter had become an unshakable mantra, a red, blinking sign in his head with words written in a foreign language. But who had he been referring to? Himself? Reid? The whole damned situation?

                It wasn’t an unfamiliar thought. _Stupid, so stupid_. He had heard it before, three times to be exact, when he had been in love. Because Morgan was not above love (even though he often tried to tell himself so.) He had been crushed by it, burnt and cut by it until he was nothing than a vengeful mess. Never again would he involve himself in something so distracting and dangerous, he had sworn to himself after the last Incident. For years it had worked: he had remained stoic and guarded, quick to dampen feeble spark that lit itself within him during every affair. So unreceptive had he become that he had effectively convinced himself that his Thing with Jordan was not love but rather a subtle way to get back at Percival for the first time. Percival and his promises, Percival and his after hour beers, Percival and his thick, suffocating words, “I see you. I want you. I know exactly what you want.”

                _Stupid, stupid_. _So stupid._

                For the first time in, well, a long time his heart had gotten the better of him. He should have gone after Reid. That would have been the safe thing to do. Follow him, see what he really knew, and then lure him back to the home ( _their_ home, a voice in Morgan’s head hissed.) But instead he had stayed in the house and prowled about like a restless lion, throwing things, hitting things, suppressing the sudden raging urges that welled up within him. He couldn’t bear to see the look of distrust on Reid’s face again much less fully admit to himself that Reid was snooping around, possibly on his way back to Quantico to _get away_ from him. This, then, was what had kept Morgan behind.

                _Stupid. What to do now?_

It was nighttime now and neither Reid nor the half-heartedly summoned members that he had commissioned to look for Reid had gotten back to him. Rain lashed against the glass dome above the living room. How ironic, he thought, that the sky should be kind enough to rage and cry for him.

                His phone rang and he pounced on it. Percival. He pressed the flashing End button and put the phone on vibrate, too anxious to shut it off. But it rang again, a third time, a fourth time, until Morgan suddenly realized that Percival could know something. On fifth ring he answered it. Before he could speak a high, careless voice wobbled over the line.

                “I feel good. _Duna-duna-duna-nuh_. I knew that I would, now. _Duna-duna-duna-nuh_. I feeeeeeel nice. _Duna-duna-duna-duna-duh_ , like sugar and spi-ice. So nice!”

                “Percival!”

                “SO NICE!”

                “Percival!!!”

                “I _got-a-yew_! You’ll never guess what I just found.” Percival often did this. He would call Morgan at all hours of the day and night and exclaim with childish jubilation ‘you’ll never guess what I just found!’ Sometimes it was something meaningless like a broken Fanta bottle or a radio station playing Morgan’s favorite song. And sometimes it was subtly cutting like an uncovered link to Morgan’s old life or a freckle on Jordan’s body. It was Percival’s way of keeping Morgan tense every time he called.

                “What is it?” Morgan said, gruff but curious.

                “No, no. You have to guess, cowboy, that’s how it works.”

                “I was hoping you’d have found something better to do with your time. But judging by this call, I guess not.”

                “Quit being a bitch and play with me. Come on, I’ll give you hints. It smells…heavenly!” Morgan was silent and Percival went on with a satisfied air. “Mmm, god, yes, I could sniff this for days. And it’s so soft, especially – oh, yeah – right there. _Right_ in that spot. But hard, too! Soft and hard, hard and soft. Have you guessed yet?”

                Morgan was beginning to feel as if he’d been tricked into participating in another one of Percival’s kinks. He was about to hang up the phone when suddenly he was stopped dead by Percival’s next words.

                “And when you kick it – like so – it gushes red stuff from its mouth and makes a noise. Oh, man, I wish you could see its lips.”

                “What?”

                “Like a pink diamond, they are. You know, a soft point at the top and bottom that kind of eases its way out at the corners…does it always wear sweater vests?”

                “You son of a bitch.”

Percival sighed. “Terry…it’s almost like you don’t want to play with me anymore. Oh well. If you change your mind, why don’t you come meet me at the top of the Hawthorne building? I would love to show you this _thing_!”

Percival laughed. Morgan dropped the phone and ran outside, Percival’s trailing song still ringing in his ears. _This knife is made for one thing. And that thing’s what it’ll do. So if you don’t come this young man’s blood will be all over you._

#

Percival stood on the edge of the roof, looking down at the city through his cigarette smoke. The rain had slicked his clothes down until it clung to his skin, giving him a strange, leathery look. Monstrous, mysterious. He dropped the hand that held the phone to his side and continued to gaze silently. A few of his henchmen were there along the rooftop along with Jordan and Terrence. It was a black night, black splattered with silver and cut through with violent jabs of violet.

“I was expecting more from you.” Reid said. He had been hit, bit, and fondled by Percival’s men but he wasn’t afraid of Percival himself anymore. As far as he was concerned the man was just a voice, no different than the voice at the back of Reid’s own mind that swore and threatened addiction from time to time. Reid realized that his bravery might have been born of ignorance (after all, Percival hadn’t _done_ anything to him) but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he had come to expect more than he had been given by the Company’s leader. This disappointed him in a way that he was loathe to admit. Percival ignored him and Reid went on unfazed, hedging his bets. He had to consider this his field minus the team. A profile was his only tool. He had to play on Percival dramatically hidden insecurities. “A show.”

“A show?”

“Of course.”

“This ain’t vaudeville, cowboy.” Jordan yelled, her arms crossed. Reid ignored her and instead directed his words to Percival who still hadn’t turned to look at him.

“Maybe not but…how else will you get me to give you all of what you want?”

“What I want?” Percival said, his shoulders tense. “And what do I want?”

“You want to know how much information I have. You think you’ve found out things about me but you’re not sure if those things are true.” At this point Terrence had hunched over, her arms wrapped protectively around her chest. Her eyes flit open – small, glinting slits in the light of the storm – and glanced at Reid. “Thing is…you don’t know if you can kill me or not without inciting trouble.”

“Oh, honey,” Jordan smirked and sauntered over to Percival’s side. “You don’t frighten us.”

“If that were true then you would have killed me already.”

“Then what would you suggest we do?”

                _Careful, careful_ , Reid told himself. They weren’t reacting in the way that Reid had expected. He didn’t know the extent of the Company’s knowledge. They could have known nothing but the bare minimum. Or they could have known everything and had a desire to keep him alive for other reasons. Why? That was the question. He had leverage, they had leverage. He could use that to his advantage. But every word was like a step on a weak ladder, one of them was bound to stumble over their own tongue. “I wanna make you a deal.” Reid said. He licked the sweat from his top lip.

“Oh?” Jordan said. “What kind of deal?”

“The kind of deal that a Company like you would appreciate from someone of my standing.”

There was a sudden clatter of footsteps on the stairway behind them. The door to the rooftop swung open and Morgan appeared, breathless. He took one glance at Percival and then ran to Reid. Once in front of him he hesitated, aware of the suspicious eyes turned towards him. He put his hand up to touch Reid’s face but Reid flinched and moved away.

“Are you alright?” Morgan mouthed silently. Before Reid could answer Terrence jumped forward and spoke a few stuttered and breathless words before finding her voice.

“You see that?” She squealed to Percival, pointing a finger at the two. “You see that? _I told you!_ They’re in this together! They’re working together, I know it.”

                “You know, Terrence, I really wish you’d shut your big mouth sometimes.” Morgan said. Terrence ignored him and continued to gasp out her words.

                “’member that paper I showed you, Percy? The one I took from the agent’s bag? He’s researching us and Terry’s in on it. He’s a….he’s a…traitorous….traitor! And also Terry isn’t even his real name! His name is Morgan! Derek Morgan!”

Morgan sighed and turned away in frustration. _What a quintessential mess of things_ , Reid thought wearily, watching him.

“So I’ve heard!” Percival turned ever so slightly and gazed at Reid over his shoulder. A sudden crack of lightning illuminated his wet, grinning face. “Spencer? What do you know about Terry – ah! Excuse me – Morgan?”

                Reid was silent. He was thinking of all of the lies that he had been told. He had been enticed and promised, tricked and made a fool of all because of Morgan. No, not Morgan, Reid reminded himself. Morgan was the man that he loved undeniably. Terry, the killer in Morgan, was the one that had tricked him. But who was the man, really? Eyes still on Morgan/Terry, he said, “Absolutely nothing.”

                It was his first big mistake.

                “Pity,” Percival said. He nodded and four men came forward. Two of them grabbed Reid by the arms and the others grabbed his legs. They carried him to the edge of the rooftop and flipped him over so that he could see the street below. It was so far away! _Twenty three stories_ , Reid thought to himself. That’s how high the Hawthorne building was. He could just barely hear the sound of Morgan struggling behind him over the rush in his ears. Percival was speaking. “See…I already have all of the influence that I need in your little station in Quantico. You don’t think there are disgruntled employees, waylaid agents who just want a little adventure on the side? You study psychos! Of course you would have a few _conversions_ in the BAU! No. I know everything about you and your little business. But apparently I know nothing about my Terry. And since you, Spencer, can’t tell me anything and you, Morgan, won’t tell me anything then it’s _Bye Bye Birdie_ to both of you! Throw the kid over the edge and bring Morgan to my office. Your death will be personal, Morgan.”

                “No!” The men heaved Reid over their shoulders and prepared to toss him over when suddenly Morgan gave a shout.

                “Wait! Let him join us! Percival, please! Listen to me!” The men hesitated and glanced at their boss who was staring at Morgan with amusement. Morgan sighed and closed his eyes. “Let him become one of us. An agent and a killer. I will tutor him, teach him everything that he needs to know in order to redeem myself. And him.”

                “He doesn’t have it in him.”

                “He does. He can prove it. Just…let me talk to him.”

                Percival was silent a moment and then he nodded, much to Jordan’s dismay. Morgan shook himself free from the men holding him and ran to Reid. He caressed his face in his hands and wiped the rain away with his thumbs. His words were low and urgent.

                “Look at me. This may be your only chance, man.”

                “I’m not going to work with a group of people who harm others for their own hedonistic pleasures,” Reid whispered back, just as fiercely. “Morgan, let them kill me. I’d rather die than become one of them.”

                “No. No, they’re not going to lay a hand on you. Because I need you. I need you right here by my side every day. I’ll protect you.”

                “I don’t need your blessings.”

                “But you need to know that you deserve to live. Reid, did I ever tell you why I kill? I kill the pardoned and unrepented bad men and women: the rapists and abusers who steal the innocence from children. Sometimes people deserve to die even when the law can’t see it. That’s why I joined the Company. I needed leeway to do what your justice system could not do. Remember a long time ago you told me that you thought that a serial killer could be good?”

                Of course Reid remembered. He remembered every single word spoken then.

                _"So you're telling me that you think a killer can be good?"_

_"Good and evil is actually a post-conceived notion that we as modern day humans have latched on to considering the contradictory fact that if-"_

_"Hey, hey, hey. I'm asking for a straight answer here."_

_"Oh, you want a straight answer? Well, assuming the concept of good versus bad to be absolute then…yes. I do believe that a killer can be good."_

_"So a psychopath strangles someone in a back alley and you're saying that he still has goodness in him?"_

_"That depends on what drove him to do it. He may have heard voices which told him to kill in which case he probably felt like he didn't have a choice. Or perhaps he truly believes that he is doing the world a favor in strangling the man in which case he's…simply acting out of his own pre-conceived notion of goodness."_

_"Hmm. And you truly believe that?"_

_"I do."_

                “Time!” Percival sang. Morgan stepped away from Reid.

                “That’s what separates us from the rest of the Company. We’re inherently good. They’re not. Remember that.” He pulled a knife from the belt of a nearby Company man and handed it to Reid. “There’s someone here who was going to have you killed for their own leverage, an unrepented bad woman.” Morgan said softly, quietly enough for Reid to hear. “Remember, Reid, if you choose to do it you’re doing it out of necessity, not sick pleasure.”

                Morgan walked away from him until he was at the edge of the rooftop. There he stood looking up with the rain on his face and his hands in the pockets of his coat. Reid knew what he had to do but he could not bring himself to do it. Suddenly all of the commands that his mind sent out to his limbs seemed so empty and meaningless, flat. He felt like a tethered balloon waving above it all with no direction save for the whims of fate. Right now those whims were buffeting him hard in every direction but he still did not know which way to go. Should he harm _her_ or should he allow himself to be killed? He could feel her gaze on his shoulders: two round pin pricks of black-and-brown light shining with worldly curiosity and faith. She was so young! But still she was a murderer.

                Slowly he began to take small steps back. The rain mixed with the tears on his face yet still every one present could see the trepidation on the man’s face. There were wedding rings sewn to her collar and each one represented a life that she had taken, a body that she had butchered. He made feeble attempts to recall the most vulnerable parts of the human anatomy when it came to a stabbing: the throat on either side of the trachea, under the sternum, behind the clavicle, kidney through the back, liver. And then there was defense to consider. But all he could think of were the rings.

                He turned with a sudden cry and fastened a hand around Terrence’s neck. Her eyes widened drastically and she gave a small gasp of surprise. _Push me away, push me away_ , he begged hoping that if she defended herself he’d have a reason to postpone the final wound. But the girl was slow in responding and weaker still when she pushed him away. Still he yielded just enough for them both to pause and register the situation.

                “No!” She cried out, her eyes hurriedly searching the rooftop for Morgan. “What’re you doing?!”

                Reid willed himself to finish what he had started and through the red haze of panic he rushed at her again, the knife held lower this time. She threw her hands out wildly, unsure of where the attack would come from, and ended up grasping him around the neck. There was an odd shudder and the handle of the knife bumped into her belly. For a moment Reid though that he had misaimed. Then Terrence gave a small cough in his ear as simultaneously a hot wetness began to coat his hand. Her arms tightened around his shoulders as her feet slipped out from beneath her, sending them both to the ground. The knife hadn’t budged from her stomach. It was embedded deeper than he had thought. Slowly her head fell back and she looked up at him, her brown eyes glazed with horror. A stream of blood trickled from her lips and found its way to her hair which was spread out over his wrist. The rain had stopped. His tears fell as little droplets and rested, quivering, full, on her round face.

                “Help me,” she rasped. Her hands slid from his shoulder and found his fist which was still clenched around the handle of the knife. “ _Please?_ ”

                He shook his head. He was barely aware of what he was saying. “I can’t do that, I’m sorry. God, you’re so beautiful. Just…just hold on okay? I’ll make it all end. Just hold on.”

                “Finish her.” Percival said. Unbeknownst to Reid he was had come up behind them and was surveying the whole thing with a hungry eye. Reid shook his head, sobbed, and rested his forehead against hers.

                “It doesn’t feel right,” she said, “It hurts. Oh God! Morgan! Morgan, help!”

                “Shh, shh. Terrence, that’s your name, right? Sorry, I just have to…” Reid closed his eyes and with detached, mechanical precision silenced her pleas forever. It seemed to take hours. Finally, when her eyes had rolled up, unseeing and her lips had fallen open in a stiff part, Percival squatted down beside him and took her pulse.

                “Deaded, deadened, _dead_.” he said. He turned his head and smiled a great, Chesire smile. But Reid could not see it. He was sobbing uncontrollably now, a strained, choked sob that echoed around the rooftop beneath the sound of the Company’s applause. He clutched Terrence’s lifeless body closer and whispered apologies in her ear. Morgan was silent. He was watching the morning sun spread on the city life below them. Percival stood up and spread his arms to the group. “Welcome our son! Welcome to the machine!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Pink Floyd. You fit in everywhere. Thank you for riding along with this story (if you’ve gotten this far.) It was a lot of fun and very surprising at times. I had happily mapped out the plot years ago on a rock whilst camping on my own in the middle of the High Sierras. But when I sat down to finish it this morning it had taken a completely different turn, one that I’m both satisfied with and unsatisfied with. I want to tentatively end it here and let the reader’s mind take the reins but I’ve also been thinking about continuing it, either in a sequel or with more chapters. I’m not sure about continuing it at this point but I’m willing to give it some consideration for those still interested. Also ‘unrepented’ is not a word apparently. What can I say? I make up words and do my own stunts.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: You know, this story was born out my fangirl need to see a fedora-wearing verybadboy Morgan kiss Spencer Reid. This one may not be as long and complex as my other ReidxMorgan (I was wondering, what do you call their pairing anyway? Spencerek? Derencer? Reidorgan? Moreid – ooh, I like that one) but I am willing to give it a try! Tell me what you think!


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